


Demise 3 Babeyyy

by writingtheend



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Original Work
Genre: Blood, Gen, Gore, Major character death - Freeform, Violence, Weapons, hermitblr demise 3, hits and defenses, warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 53
Words: 41,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingtheend/pseuds/writingtheend
Summary: Welcome to Avon's Demise 3 hit and defense! Good luck killing!Chapters will be named by whether it is a hit or defense, then who it is targeted at or against. (Ex. Hit Exnoh)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 37





	1. Defense, Skyy

The yellow is bright against the muted colors of the endstone, but Avon is much more hidden in the skies, black wings open as she circles her attacker. When Skyy no longer has visual of Avon, the dragonheart rips her trident free, and a single prong catches on the material of the bumblebee striped shirt. Before Skyy can realize what's happening, or feel the sting of torn skin and warm blood against her, a black bolt hurdles from the sky. Wings open just before Avon would crash into the ground, and the trident is loyally returned to her hands. 

But Skyy isn't going to back down. Not now, not yet. The two clash in the end, where Skyy followed Avon after she attacked her. Iron axe against cyan trident, block, attack, swipe, swing. It's a battle for their lives, and neither are about to back down. All they need is one opening, and the other will exploit it.

Avon finds that opening. Skyy trips back on a hill in the End, not noticing the black pillar among the hazy, million stared sky. Without wasting a second, Avon grabs Skyy by the boot, and yanks the two into the air. An axe clatters helplessly to the ground. 

In her namesake, high above the ground, Skyy does everything she can to hold onto Avon. Black dragon wings beat against her hair, sending her ponytail dancing in a whirlwind of brown, nearly snapping the thin yellow chord. Above her, holding tight, Avon chuckles darkly. “Oh, so now you don’t want me gone?” 

Skyy’s heart drops when she sees the manic expression on Avon’s face. Ambered eyes meet purple, and Skyy knows she’s doomed. All Avon has to do is decide her fate. The dragonheart lifts Skyy by the shirt, dangling her high above the end island. Blood drips from both girls, falling a long way before splashing against the pale yellow ground. Skyy can feel blood crest around her eye, tangling and matting her hair. 

But she doesn’t fall. No, Avon doesn’t drop her. Rather, the blond warrior sends her flying into an end crystal. If it weren’t for the explosion of touching the unstable geode, Skyy might’ve survived the kinetic energy of crashing into it. 

Instead, all she remembers is a million stars, like static in the sky of the end, an explosion, and a few scraps of yellow fabric before things go dark. 

(402 words)


	2. Defense, Abyss/Strike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get a special one friend, a bit of homage to the last time our sonas have been in the nether ;)
> 
> Cw: violence

Avon jumps out of the way of the potion before it’s effects can linger on her skin, before the potion of harming can eek it’s way under her skin. Her feet scrape across the thin layer of warped nylium, revealing the red dirt beneath. Despite chasing after her quarry in her least favorite place, she still has a smile. 

Strike is falling right into her trap. A wall of netherrack blocks them from escape. Avon clambers up a vine, and takes off from a tree. The hot fumaroles of the nether send her soaring over Strike, and she lands gracefully before the striderkin. “Surprise, little one.” 

Strike reels back, yellow antennae rising in shock. They throw down another potion, but Avon bats the splash potion into a poor unfortunate magma cube. The slime jumps in slow motion, and Strike is distracted by the silly looking accordion movement. So distracted they nearly are impaled then and there. 

They just barely block the metal of the trident with their bow. The wood creaks and bends against the strength pushing down on it, but Strike refuses to let up. Not now, nor ever. They think quickly, and in one fluid motion, dive out of the way of the weapon and send netherrack flying into Avon’s eyes. Their attacker stumbles backwards, nearly falling into the lava below, giving Strike time to run. 

But they don’t get far. The nether can only be so big, and the caverns all end, like a cave underground in the overworld. And Avon will hunt down whoever dares attack her, because a dragon never yields. 

One moment, Strike is on their feet. The next, they’ve tripped over a mushroom, crashing into the ground like a meteorite. When Strike manages to wipe the dirt from their eyes, all they see is black. Black wings unfurling to reveal a trident at their neck, purple cloak snapping in the hot air of the nether. 

“I’m not making the same mistake this time.” Avon growls, and plunges the three prongs into Strike. Red, the color of Strike’s hair, blossoms across their white shirt, pouring and disappearing into the red netherrack. And Avon steps away, trident in hand, feeling her own scars at the memory of a similar event. 

Not this time. 

(378 words)


	3. Defense, Missie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your sona was so cool and so much fun to write about, her story was just awesome! thanks for the art, now why don't you stop trying to kill and just sit and smell the lilacs?
> 
> Cw: asphyxia

Missie creeps through the stronghold, slow and steady as the vines that drape down the cobblestone and the moss that breaks through the stone. She grabs hold of an antennae and twists it, trying to silence the static through her electronic head. Pink flowers, so gentle and sweet smelling, growing from the corpse it grew from. Missie was made through a series of wonderful happenstances. 

And if she wants to live, she’s going to have to be just as lucky. Because she’s not alone in these halls. Echoing through the cold stone of the buried building, she’s not listening for the rattling of a skeleton, or the hiss of a creeper. She’s listening for the growl of a dragon. 

Light reflects across Missie’s screen, blinding her temporarily. An escape, a way to the surface. Back to sunlight, to freedom. Where she can grow and prosper in the sunlight. Missie abandons all attempts at silence and races up the stone stairs. She’s never been so happy to feel grass on her vessel’s bones and skin. 

A splash potion of regeneration shatters at Missie’s feet, and the broken stubs of lilac bushes she cut down to enter the stronghold grow back with a vengeance. If she didn’t know better, she would’ve thought the plants were sentient themselves, the way they wrapped around her vessel’s body, leeching the nutrients left behind and blossoming into soft, tiny purple flowers. The branches pull on her antennae, until Missie is forced to face the figure that rises from the depths of the stronghold. Black wings spread out, blocking the sun. Removing Missie’s energy. 

“I love lilacs. They’re my favorite plant.” Avon’s voice is husky with disuse, and she pulls a finger through her hair, before piercing purple eyes meet the dark red and black static. “They smell so nice, and they symbolize renewal, resilience.” 

Missie tries to escape the ever growing branches, as they tighten around her own flowers and vines. A battle between greenery, all within Missie’s mechanical head. Avon doesn’t even have to lift a finger. “But they also can symbolize loss, or even wisdom. They’re quite versatile.” A feeling of asphyxia warps through Missie’s body, her plant sentience unable to move the body it controls, unable to find energy. Wild, feral eyes the color of lilac pierce through Missie’s faltering vision, like a tv losing power. “It wasn’t wise to attack me, love. Your loss.” 

(402 words)


	4. Defense, Bork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how i keep doing 402 works, but this is the third work that ends with 402.   
> -  
> Also, Bork, if there's anything I can do to make the reading easier for you, please let me know! As much as I want to defend, i want this to be fun for you as well!

Bork’s wings flutter in the sunlight, before dipping below the canopy line and into the dense forest of the dark oak woods. The green carpet matches Bork’s short capelet, golden threads in an intricate pattern of leaves wrapped across her shoulder. Once she’s sure she won’t be attacked, by mob or player, she feels she can tuck her opalescent blue wings away and focus on tidying herself up. 

Sitting down, nestled in the intertwining roots of an oak tree, she counts her remaining arrows. Damn, she’s low. She needs to collect more- the last victim to her attacks was a hard target. She thought that maybe, with both being winged, they’d have an advantage against Avon. But the dragon was quick, and not afraid to do daring moves. She lost so many arrows, but she got Avon in the end. She just hopes it was enough to take her out. 

The sound of rustling leaves sends Bork back into battle mode, locks of black hair falling free from their ponytail as she knocks an arrow and draws the string back. Breath and bolt held, waiting to see what has come for them.

The tall grass parts, and reveals… a pig. With cute round eyes and a perfectly coiled tail, all of Bork’s fears are replaced with joy at the sight of the creature. She puts away her bow and crouches down. “You gave me a fright, cutie. I thought you were a certain dragon coming to give my wings a light crisping.” 

Oinking, the pig nuzzles against Bork’s hand, then sniffs at their pockets. She laughs, and pulls out the carrot she had tucked away. The piglet crunches down greedily, leaving orange crumbs all over Bork’s navy pants. She giggles all the same, her muscles untensing and relaxation filling her. 

In all the chaos of demise, sometimes it’s nice to take a break, and just breathe. Remind herself that she’s alive, and that’s the best gift of all, that’s what she’s fighting for. She feels the sun on her skin, in the dappled groves of the forest, the wind in her hair, the grass in between her fingers. She’s alive, she can feel her heart beating in their chest. A soft smile creases her face, and she manages to catch up on some lost sleep, among the quiet forest and with her little porker protecting her. 

Not all of demise is bad.

(402 words)


	5. Defense Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is short and maybe has some mistakes? I'm in a pumpkin patch. But the pin is quite ironic!
> 
> Cw: falling

Avon picks up the pin Ash dropped, observing the placard with a half cocked brow. "Its not very bro to attack a dragon."

Ash rises to his feet, gripping his trident as hard as he can. His opponent also had the versatile weapon, but Ash is much more lithe than her. They’re a slime, he can just absorb all the attacks. But Avon doesn’t seem bothered, which makes fear instill in Ash's chest. He can't figure out whats going on behind those piercing, sharp eyes. 

But it doesn’t take long for him to figure it out. The two trade blow after blow, metal prongs snapping together and getting tangled. "I'd hardly call black wings a dragon. More...batheart."

He should've known saying that would anger Avon, but he doesn't expect it to be as bad as it truly is. Avon twists hard, throwing both weapons to clatter on the ground. Suddenly, Ash's feet are off the ground, wings blustering his tuft of slime at his crown, his clothes whipped around in the sky.

He yelps when Avon tosses him up, then grabs him by the boot. Letting them dangle above the ground, far, far below. A terrified yelp escapes his lips, and he tries to clamber back up into Avon’s protective grip. 

But she just rips off the elytra clung to their back, face emotionless but eyes alight with anger and a desire for revenge. The marks of the shackles and burn marks of flame are visible on her pale skin. 

"Pl-please, don't do it." They beg. But Avon isn't listening.

And in the second as Avon lets go, Ash understands true fear. The panic in his eyes, the way his heart races so fast it stops all together. And the rush of air whistling through his ears, down and down and down till-

-SPLAT. 

(305 words)


	6. Hit Jamie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eagla an dragan...
> 
> Last time I wasn't able to fight back, or even show how much I appreciated the work Jamie, so here's all of it tenfold! I may have gone a bit overboard but your sona looks so good, and I was inspired by SAD-ist's fight animations for this one. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“You caught me off guard last time, Jamie.” The voice crosses the field, followed by the whistle of a projectile, one that the lieutenant narrowly escapes. He doesn’t even notice that it nicked his elongated, tufted ears until the warm sensation of blood trickles down his cheek. Jamie turns around, facing whoever dares take him on. 

He should’ve known she’d come back around eventually. He did kill her, using her own beloved lilacs. But that was then, and this is now. Now, the game has become a whole different monster. And Avon, typically only one to retaliate, wanted to remind him what it means to disturb a resting dragon. Jamie leans against his sword, a warm and natural smile gracing his face. He doesn’t dare underestimate his enemies, but he’s not going to let them get to him either. 

The two stand, weapons ready for battle. A fight for their lives. Sizing the other up, each tense muscle, every breath. Jamie takes note of everything he can, everything he could possibly use to his advantage, tail flicking side to side- like a metronome, keeping pace and reminding Jamie of the time that passes as he sizes up the competition. 

Avon’s trident, loyal to its master, returns to her gloved hand, and Jamie flourishes his enchanted iron blade, the cold silver metal matching with his starch white, well pressed uniform. He’s not sure what causes the fight to begin- perhaps a twitch of a muscle, a change in the wind, or even just a click in her head- but suddenly, there’s a shadow over Jamie, wings blocking out the sun, and he blocks the strike with his sword. 

Jamie yelps when Avon’s boots, heavy with weight, land on his black, bushy tail and dig into the ground. He whips it around, knocking his rival to the ground. A heavy blow to the ground, but Jamie’s sword only scrapes across Avon’s wings. They trade attacks, metal clanging and clattering across the open battlefield. 

Avon drives her trident forward, aiming for Jamie’s chest, and he narrowly blocks it by intercepting the metal with his own. He twists the iron sword, locking the two into a pushing match. Avon huffs, fierce eyes watching him fight back with icy blue gaze. “You’re quite the fighter, I would’ve liked to have battled you last time. But you had to be sneaky.” 

“I don’t need stealth this time around.” Jamie grins, and kicks Avon’s legs out from under her. His sword goes along with her trident, spiraling and glinting in the sunlight. Avon recollects herself in the air, out of Jamie’s reach as he uses his tail to grab his sword. He brandishes the bloody blade, still smiling even as blood pours from the open wound across his eye. She narrowly missed taking his eye out. He pulled away just in time. Jamie takes a second, tucking his off hand behind his back and pressing his brandished fist to the ruffled neck scarf. “Though I’ll admit, this has been quite fun, dragonheart. A well fought battle, I will be pleased to win this fight.” 

Avon snorts above him, instead falling from the sky. Like a bullet, Jamie hardly has a second to roll out of the way, swearing to himself when he notices a grass stain on his fancy jacket, a brass button lost among the grass and gold trim torn by sticks. He sighs, shaking his head. He worked so hard on his uniform, and it’s being torn to shreds, like Avon’s tattered cloak. 

He rises to his feet, brushing a thumb across the grime and gore on his face, flicking it aside and raising his blade. “Come at me, dragon.” 

His taunts do exactly as he planned, because it brings Avon back into battle. He feels like a knight in shining armor more than a furby lieutenant, fighting off the dragon that threatens this land. Protecting the overworld, a brave hero and strong leader of his team. With his burst of pride, he swings his blade. Avon dodges into the sky, but Jamie manages to nick her wing and keep her grounded. 

The battle continues, cuts traded and weapons clanging off one another. Sometimes Jamie thinks he's winning, sometimes he fears he's going to lose. Sometimes he's just a hair's breadth from decapitating the head of the black winged, purple eyed beast, sometimes his throat is trapped between two prongs of a trident just a bit too off center. 

Avon lands a hit, staining the while coat of his uniform a deep red. Jamie grasps at the wound, retreating with labored breath. His hat falls to the wayside, the tricorn left overturned on the battlefield as Jamie snaps his head up. Unruly locks of black hair fall free, curling over his ears. Pulling back his hand, every inch of it is covered with his own blood, ochre droplets falling from clawed fingers and marring the grass red. 

He fights back the pain, never losing sight of the dragonheart he battles. At least she's easy to find, with that blonde mane and purple cloak. Hell, it might as well be a beacon for Jamie. He lurches forward, bloodied hand swinging his blade full strength. 

"You know, I never quite felt comfortable in the End." Jamie chuckles, before stopping when the pain becomes too much. He thinks fast, glancing across Avon, across the battlefield. Some way to gain the upperhand. "The air is so thin, not to mention a giant lizard and teleporting enemies all over the place."

"Those are the least of your worries in the End." Avon snorts, attacking forward. He deflects the trident, but stumbles back as it throws him off his weight, onto the wounded side. Blood spreads up his fresh uniform, gold dazzling in the sea of red. "You had me good, using my own plants against me."

Hes surprised by the compliment, and Avon uses that surprise against him. In a swift, single motion, she's off her feet- wings holding up her weight- and digging her boots into Jamie's chest. Heel grinding into his wound. 

He's on the ground now, dazed and writhing as the painful wound is torn open more. Only the beacon of purple crosses his dazed vision, before feeling the cold metal of a single, sharp trident prong at his neck. "But this time, looks like you're down for the count." 

(1069 words)


	7. Defense Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The amv was super cool, i'm honored to be a part of it! hope you enjoy my deflection, unfortunately Jeane the ender dragon is quite close friends with Avon
> 
> cw: burning, forced poisoning

And Seyf thought the overworld was cold. She’s used to being chilled, not particularly interested in living in the lava, but here in the End, she wishes she could be bathing in lava right now. The air is thin, making it hard to breathe. Seyf wishes she could have the scent of basalt in her nose, rather than the strange scent of ozone the End is filled with. 

But Seyf has more to worry about than the chill in the air or the smell of the End. Her fur blusters as a strong gust of wind whips across the end. In the fuzzy sky of a million, billion stars, Seyf can hardly see the massive form of the Ender dragon. The beast turns, maw opening wide and spitting the purple flame. Seyf dodges away with only a slight char to her fur. Not that fire bothers her much- she is part strider. 

What she doesn’t understand is why the Ender dragon is attacking her. She’s part of the Enders team, she practically honors the ender dragon. She wears a jacket styled after this protector of the End. The ender dragon turns, and with a whip of her tail, sends Seyf crashing across the rough endstone, rolling and nearly falling into the void below the island. 

“Jeane has a bit of a grudge on those that attack her friend.” Leaping from the great height of an obsidian tower, a second pair of wings open in the sky, black membrane matching with purple frets of fabric. “Dragons tend to stick together. And we aren’t quite fond of the nether.” 

Seyf growls, grabbing a potion from her belt and throwing it at the ground before the dragons. Jeane, the ender dragon, takes off to avoid the potion of harming, while Avon bats the glass vial away with her wing, letting it break harmlessly onto the empty endstone. Avon thrusts her trident, leaving clawlike scratches across Seyf’s face from the prongs, and Seyf retreats to take a potion of healing. 

In the fraction of a second she was focused on downing the magenta liquid, Jeane has returned with a vengeance, grey claws swiping, a single talon breaking Seyf’s belt of potions. Avon bursts forward, grabbing the vials and striking Seyf with the pommel of her trident. Suddenly, a potion is within Avon’s hand, the viscous green liquid swirling as Avon titrates it back and forth, pulling free the stopper. She forces Seyf’s maw open, and dumps the potion down her throat. 

The poison takes effect immediately, twisting Seyf’s gut and making the world hazy and bleak. She can feel the potion taking her life, slowly and surely. Leaving her just barely gasping for breath, on the verge of death. 

Then the growl of a dragon, the heat of flame against her fur, fangs glistening against the fire. 

And nothing. 

(475 words)


	8. Hit Charlie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi I know you're already dead Charlie but I was working on this before the last hits happened and you didn't defend. Hopefully you can still enjoy this! Why don't you just hang awhile? 
> 
> (Warning: strangulation, accidental hanging)

The explosion caught him off guard. He didn’t know where the creeper came from, but suddenly Charlie was holding onto the ledge of the cliff for dear life. Fingers scrabble and scrape, searching for purchase so he can haul himself back up. He can feel pebbles cut and mar his skin, leaving trails of blood with every grasp of the stone above him. 

Does he dare call out for help? What if another mob hears him? Maybe there’s a ledge just a bit below him. Charlie dares to look beyond his black boots, dangling helplessly over the edge of the ravine. To his chagrin, there is no easy way out. Well, there is one...but he’s not ready to die. Not yet. 

Charlie manages to grab hold of a rock, dug deep into the ground, offering himself just a bit of relief while his boots grasp at the sheer cliff face. Three points of contact, and he should be safe. With his free hand, bloodied and dirty from attempting to climb back up, Charlie removes the baby blue cupcake liner, biting on the edge and digging through his inventory. He has to be clever, he has to be smart about escaping this predicament he’s found himself in. 

His hand wraps around his trusty fishing pole, the worn wood material comfortable in his hand, and he yanks the long stick free from his hat. Knocking himself in the head, Charlie gasps and swears to himself. It’s not until he hears the sound of the cherry topped hat bounce off the stone far below does he realize he’s dropped his hat. Letting out a pitiful whimper, he’s not sure what he should be mourning more. The loss of his entire inventory, or his favorite hat. 

The soles of Charlie’s boots lose their grip on the cliff face, sending pebbles falling into the ravine below, and he forgets mourning his loss for now. He’s got to get himself out of this predicament. Looking at the fishing pole in his hand, fingers aching as they hold onto the lip of the stone, he notices a vine swinging nearby. Salvation. 

He just has to get over to it. Or he can bring it to him. Charlie swings his fishing pole, the red and white bobber zipping in the space between him and the verdant vine. Missed. Using his feet, teeth, and free hand, he reels the hook back in and tries again. The metal end snatches into the vine, and Charlie cheers to himself. 

Now’s the scary part. He has to trust his fishing rod, he has to trust himself, and make the transition from stone to vine. But if he doubts either part, or even himself, surely he will die. But if he doesn’t try, eventually his grip will give out. And he will plummet to the bottom of the ravine. Charlie takes a deep breath, and lets go of the ground. 

He swings, pulling the reel of the fishing rod and stretching his bloodied hands to meet the vine. He doesn’t let himself doubt that he won’t catch it, that his rod won’t break, that the line will snap under his weight. He trusts his fishing pole, he trusts his body. He will escape. 

Lithe fingers wrap around the vine, bright pink nail polish like tiny flowers blooming against the greenery. Charlie grins, and reels himself in. 

He celebrated a bit too soon. It was never himself, or the fishing rod that would fail him. It was the vine itself. The plant snaps, falling and wrapping tightly around Charlie’s throat, the other end knotting up with the other vines around him. Suddenly, Charlie is no longer in control. His hand holding onto the vine falls away, and the only thing holding him up from the ravine is his own neck. 

For one small second, Charlie is floating. But in his mind, he know’s what’s next. 

The fall.

Charlie is left to hang, the vine tightening against his throat. His mind goes into survival mode, legs swinging out to search for purchase and relieve the tension of his weight on his throat, The vine forces his throat closed, and no air passes in or out from the barrier around his neck. His hands reach up, grasping at the vine. Trying to break free, but he’s trapped. 

Gasping for air, Charlie turns his head to the sky, a desperate attempt to ease the strangling vine around his neck. The clouds above him drift listlessly in the sky, a bright and beautiful day as the darkness creeps along the edge’s of Charlie’s vision. His lungs ache, blood pulsing in his ears, and his breathing and kicking grow slower, heavier. 

Until the darkness claims Charlie, and a fishing pole clatters to the bottom of the ravine, drifting down a water stream to meet with a lost cupcake liner hat.

(812 Words


	9. Defense Spelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever wondered what your sona would be like as an scp? Well here it is! I hope i did alright, i never wrote an scp article before. 
> 
> every other mentioned scp that was attacked is another player in the game, and the numbers all have meaning!

Item #: SCP-20175

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedure: All weapons, sharp objects, blunt objects, ropes, fires, mob boss hats and outfits, backpacks, or anything that could be used to ◼◼️◼️◼️◼️ must be kept out of reach of SCP-20175. Subject must be kept within a ventilated glass box with no holes larger than the size of a fist and no seams larger than a fingernail. Glass will be continuously treated to keep SCP-20175 from climbing walls. Report immediately and lock all security cases when escape occurs.

Do not be alarmed if Subject talks back, it tends to do that. 

Description: SCP-20175 is a humanoid with great number of spider-like features, including multiple eyes (two of which glow and are visible in the dark- useful in case of escape), a pair of incising pinchers, and tarantula-like fuzzy, bipedal figure with black fur. At the crown of the head, SCP-20175 possesses more hair, which it prefers tied back (use ◼️◼️◼️ to prevent later strangulation) to see. When wounded, subject bleeds glowing blue blood (no know reason, potentially useful for ◼️◼️◼️◼️?)

Subject prefers clothes, shoes, and likes to carry a backpack full of items it constantly tries to sell. It is best to appease SCP-20175 by buying it’s wares. 

SCP-20175 is volatile but friendly, often found talking with personnel and cracking jokes. Do not let the subject lull into a false sense of security- it has attacked 15 other subjects/personnelle within the span of 3 days. Keep an eye on all weaponry around subject, do not allow it to possess any material it could find useful. 

While talking and purchasing from SCP-20175 can keep it calm and friendly, personnel and other subjects often find themselves targets of SCP-20175’s proclivity for murder. Even the most trusted personnel or fellow subjects can become victims to SCP-20175’s murderous tendencies. 

SCP-20175 is the leader of a group of other humanoid SCPs, to which it claims to be a ‘mafia’ which it is the boss of. If it is in a good mood, allow it to think so, but do not allow it weapons, or any 1920s era clothing. 

Documented attacks on other subjects have occurred to SCP-20001 (decommissioned), SCP-12213 (Euclid), SCP-32534 (Keter), SCP-106203 (Keter) twice (once with SCP-106), SCP-4203 (decommissioned) twice, SCP-20182 (Keter), SCP-111320 (Euclid), SCP-832010 (Keter), and used SCPs 939, 035, and 096 to attack SCP-72231 (Euclid), SCP-22031 (Euclid), and SCP-03290 (Keter) respectively. 

SCP-20175 is a highly reactive, powerful subject that must be handled carefully, or disposed of- but only by other subjects in it’s game of ◼️◼️◼️◼️◼️. Do not interrupt the game of ◼️◼️◼️◼️◼️, or you as well will be ◼️◼️◼️◼️◼️.


	10. Defense YanDan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So i actually really like knives, and the knife that your sona has in the beginning is an actual knife i own- thought it'd be a funny homage to your proclivity to sharp things! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> cw: stabbing, knives

“This is a really good knife, mind if I keep it?” Dan asks, twisting the dragon skin damascus knife in his hand. He leans nonchalantly against the chest of the small obsidian cottage in the End, his smirk angering both dragons at the doorway. 

“You come into my home,” Avon shuts the door, but Jeane moves to one of the large bay windows, peering in with piercing purple eyes. But nothing scares the hitman, not even a giant flying lizard. The red scar across his cheek just creases as he stares the two down. “You try to kill me and my dragon,” Avon opens her wings to show where Dan just missed stabbing her in the back, the black membrane taking the brunt of the hit. “And you have the audacity to rifle through my stuff and steal it?” 

“I mean, you won’t have much use for it when you’re dead.” Dan chuckles, then crosses the star shaped carpet in three quick paces, brandishing Avon’s own knife at her throat. She tips her head back, and the tow glare at each other in a tense silence. 

The sound of metal breaking through glass, followed by the roar of a dragon, and Avon is suddenly armed, and Dan retreats from the trident swing just before getting gutted. Good, he likes when he gets to fight. The two trade blows within the cottage in the end, Dan jumping onto the bookshelves, crafting tables, and chests to reach Avon every time she takes into the sky. At one point she disarms him, reclaiming her knife. But Dan has his own- he always has his own. 

Avon retreats through the broken window, and Dan follows. He throws his knife. “Don’t you run, you’re only delaying the inevitable!” 

He’s so focused on the one dragonheart, he’s completely forgotten about the real dragon. At least, not until he feels the searing heat and poison of the ender dragon’s breath, followed by a wing sending him flying into the sky. 

He’s so focused, he’d fallen right into a trap all in itself. At the vertex of his fall, Avon is face to face with him. Gravity reclaims his body, and he begins to plummet back down to the floating endstone island. 

That death would have been easier. No, he watches as Avon reels back her trident, and throws it with as much force into his chest. By the time he hits the pale yellow ground, he’s been skewered right through, and two pairs of wings circle like vultures around the body of the murderer left behind. 

(429 words)


	11. Defense Moth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hiiii I saw that your sona likes caves and mining and after today's update reveal I could only imagine them living in a cave like the new update shows, though a little bit has also been inspired by my time spent studying Mammoth Cave- big cave with houses inside, just like Moth's! Hope you enjoy!

Moth feels comfortable in the caves below ground. They’re cozy, protective like a parent holding their child, the temperature is always constant, and best of all Moth can find wonderful shinies while mining. Nestled in her cave, moth has built a home of stone brick, in the maw of the massive tunnel where a river once ran. Coal ore drinks in the light of the candles and torches she has scattered about, and stalagmites and stalagtites cast shadows on the smooth stone walls. 

Moth was at home in the cave, and she leans back on the spruce wood bench outside her house, playing with the ends of her albino braids and listening to the distant drip of water as she slips into a state between rest and sleep. 

When she wakes up, she notices her candles have gone low, and returns to her cave house to retrieve more. The spruce wood inside her house leaves softer echos than that outside the cave, but she’s learned to like the sound of her own footsteps. She doesn’t sound alone, even when she is. She enjoys the caves, even it it makes her peculiar. 

Moth sets the candles atop the pinnacles reaching from the ground, and lights them like lampposts. They throw light, at first blinding Moth and their sensitive red eyes, but they are drawn to the illumination, it’s comforting glow. The way it bounces off the rubbled rocks, the cairns they’ve built, tunnels going every direction to lead them to treasure. Even on the way in, they pass through underwater rivers, filled with strange creatures just as light sensitive as them, pockets in the cave with a lush forest of it’s own. Even, if they feel like taking a long walk, they can find a massive amethyst geode a few rockfalls away. 

She loves her cave, the quiet, peaceful rest she can find in it’s constant temperature, the low light, the comforting embrace of the earth. Moth decides that maybe in a few days, she will go exploring, see what nooks and crannies she can wedge herself through, map out more of the intricate cavern she calls home. Maybe she’ll find a different, cool new rock formation, or another river, or something she can’t even begin to imagine yet. 

But here in the cave, Moth is happy. They have their home, their farm, and a place they can find peace and rest in. 

(402 words)


	12. Hit Crys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double hit love! Sorry Crys, we just both love your sona and had so much fun working together to hit you twice. She was really fun to write, especially different blood color and cool weapon!
> 
> cw: general violence, stabbing, falling

The shelf topples over Crys, wood splintering and books crashing around her. She feels the golden ichor from her veins swell around the shards of wood, bruises appearing across her skin. She grits her teeth against the pain, clambering free from the bookshelves of the library. [Crys doesn’t have time to focus on her wounds, not when she has the Ender Enders on her tail. 

She retreats from a close brush of a trident, thrown down the hall of the stronghold, and bends the burrowed metal prongs using her own war hammer. When the loyalty enchanted weapon attempts to return, the trident remains stuck in the stone wall. 

Crys takes the time to run through the maze of stone brick, glancing through the rooms she passes, making mental note of every turn she takes. Jail cells abandoned and broken, altars filled with food and shinies, more libraries brimming with tomes as ancient as the building she’s within. None are the place she’s looking for. 

Up a set of twisting stone stairs, Crys can hear the duo right behind her. A hand grabs at the short skirt, purple fingers twisting within the grey-blue pleated fabric, and throwing her down the stairs. For a dizzying second, Crys can only stare at Exnoh at the crown of the steps with a dazed expression. 

Tall and proud, masked chin jutting out and violet hair cascading over her shoulders, the only proof that Exnoh is smiling is the crinkle of her lilac skin at the corner of her eyes. Exnoh jumps from the top of the spiral stairs, trenchcoat fluttering like wings. 

But they’re not the one with the wings. When the pebbles settle and dust comes to rest as Exnoh lands heavy at the bottom of the stairs, a bright purple flutter of fabric catches Crys’s attention. Avon stalks the dark shadows, twisting her bent trident in her hands, wings crested outwards to make her form bigger. 

Crys is surrounded. Trapped between the two, one guarding the steps, the other guarding the doorway. Crys blocks a swing of Exnoh’s sword, the metal cutting into the shaft of her modified netherite pick. Exnoh cuts away, slicing up Crys’s arm and leaving a divot in her hammer. The golden blood pours from the open wound, sparkling in the dim stronghold light. 

She’s not going to give up that easily. They have Crys surrounded, with one wounded hand held to her chest, the other holding her hammer and twisting to capture Avon’s trident. Avon is so focused on the hand swinging the heavy weapon, she doesn’t notice Crys’s fingers holding a deep green orb. 

Crys ender pearls away, one second from being decapitated by Avon’s trident. Free, she takes off down the hall. She can smell the scent of the void, hear the scratching of silverfish. It’s nearby. 

So are the Ender Enders. Despite getting a head start, Crys isn’t the first at the mouth of the open End Portal. Wind blusters Crys’s shoulder length blue hair, the cool brush of black wings against her horns, and Avon is standing on the frame of the portal. Feet perched precariously in between the delicate ender eyes, wings stretched out to block Crys from reaching the End. 

The two lock into battle, trading blows and dancing across the precarious thin line between overworld and End. Avon flips her trident, using the pommel to sweep Crys’s feet out from under her, leaving Crys to scrabble for purchase as the lava below burns at her feet. Yellow stained hands digging into the material of the portal frame, until Crys finds her footing. She swings around, kicking Avon into the portal and jumping in after. 

Crys got lucky. The platform is on the ender island, black obsidian, is melded with the rough hewn pale stone of the island. She runs as fast as she can to the center, far from the sheer edge, the void below. She stumbles only once, when three metal prongs dig into her slim back. Crashing to the ground, Crys tries her best to stand up. 

But the Ender Enders are on her like vultures. Pale yellow endstone and white fabric stained gold, tines of the trident pulling free and letting the blood flow open. Crys swings her hammer in a desperate attempt to keep the two away, and it does manage to connect with Avon, slicing open Avon’s cheek and breaking a talon off her wing. 

“You’re gonna regret that.” Avon growls, taking off into the sky and launching her trident. Crys scrambles to her feet, knocking the projectile aside. 

“Let’s do this dance again,” Exnoh sneers, eyes bright with excitement, “This time, I’m not leaving anything to chance.” Crys lands a heavy blow on Exnoh, but his gold armored communicator blocks the brunt of the blow- though not without breaking it in the process. Exnoh returns with their own attack. 

Cuts and blows clang and clatter through the empty void of the End, neither party seeming to gain or ground. A wound across Crys’s face, gold matching the gold of her eyes, A deep gouge in Exnoh’s shoulder. Gold and red staining the endstone, as purple and blue twist and turn in their fight. 

Crys feels her head getting dizzy from the lack of air, something Exnoh only grows stronger within. Her hits are slower, her mind swimming from the pain and low air. She’s focused on beating Exnoh, so much she doesn’t even think of the other half of the duo. 

Not until the black dragon wings smack Crys, opening up just enough to reveal a trident. Crys manages to step aside before the cyan weapon weapon plunges into her gut, out of the storm of black wings and wind. 

Directly into Exnoh’s line of fire. With a sharp flick of his wrist, and all the force he can muster, Exnoh throws the sharp netherite blade, cutting through the thin air of the End. 

Cutting right through Crys’s white tunic, embedding itself into her chest. Crys goes still, shoulders slumped as she stares at the black sword protruding from her chest, gold flowers blossoming on her shirt and ichor streams racing down the metal. Each gasping breath, each heartbeat, hurts more and more. 

Crys slumps forward, though her face doesn’t meet the endstone ground. She’s gone before she can realize that Avon has caught her. 

“Time to take out the trash.” Avon takes off, carrying the body of the intruder over the edge of the island, shaking red and gold blood off her wing. Extracting the sword from Crys, she dumps the body into the void, letting the elements be reclaimed by the universe, before returning to her partner, successful once more.


	13. Defense Randa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well now I know who Shbloop is...and how to spell it! I love the swamp biome, so our dear slime friend gets to explore one of my favorite places!
> 
> Swamps are pretty
> 
> Cw: drowning, suffocating

Shbloop knew of only two things. Blood and bounce. Whichever came first is up to the fates. And in the Misty swamps that Shbloop calls home, waddling between vine covered trees, waterlogged islands, and bright blue lily flowers, both could easily be found. 

The golemized Slime waddled past a witches hut, the scent of a potion brewing mixed with the poison that killed her latest victim. It walked around a pit where another person was incinerated by a creeper, ash all thats left of the person. 

But Shbloop does struggle with one thing here in the land it calls home. The silty mud, and its mechanical body, always fighting when it sinks into the quicksand mud. Like Shbloop is now. 

The stiff metal and wood tries to wriggle free, but with every movement, the swamp swallow Shbloop deeper. The slime in control of the body thinks, as much as a bundle of sentient goo can, on how to escape. It doesn’t want to leave its body behind- it likes its body, it looks like a human with it. Shbloop can swim, but this thing sinks.

Shbloop tries again, and sinks deeper. And again, and sinks even deeper. In its attempts to waddle back to the safety of the muddy shores, it has trapped itself in the silted quicksand. Each resistance leads to it sinking more, and with every inch added, the sinking goes faster. 

In one last desperate attempt, Shbloop reaches out to take hold of a vine. It pulls, and feels the swamp pull back. It wants Shbloop. Its not giving up. Shbloop gives another mighty heave. 

The vine snaps, and Shbloop goes face first into the mud, its weight dragging it into the depths of the silt. Just like the corpse outside the hut, or the ash in the hole. 

Everything becomes a part of the swamp eventually.

(309 words)


	14. Deflect Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your art made me so happy I really hope this can hold up to par how wonderful your art was! I love your minesona, she's so cute and cool looking, words alone can't do her justice!
> 
> Cw: poisoning

Louise isn’t sure where the potatoes came from, but she was more than happy to make use of the surprise gift, baking them and humming to herself. She taps her horns on the table to make a beat, twisting her purple curls around her fingers as she counts down the time. 

The baked potatoes are ready, and Louise pulls them from the oven, unbothered by the heat. She’s not exactly human anymore, and all that radioactivity has made her immune to many things. Heat energy is nothing compared to the nuclear blasts of atomic fallout. 

Louise can’t help but admire how peaceful the evening was. Just one night, she’s not busy committing murder or defending herself from those who wish her dead. Even with the ever growing army of lost lives, she’s glad to have a night where she can just bake for herself, fight the unruly curls back into their barrels, and fix the rips in her trousers and skirts. Every gal needs a day off from bloodthirsty killing to take care of herself. 

She sets herself down at the table, digging a fork into the potato and pulling out the starcharts she loves (or hates? Depends who you ask). She’s quite good at measuring the movement of the stars, and loves to watch the tiny balls of light dance through the sky in an endless showcase of synchrony. Her ebony eyes are accustomed to looking to the sky, and wondering about the worlds that orbit those millions of suns she sees. 

Taking a bite into the potato, Louise’s fangs dig into the skin and break it open, and she can’t help but think of how it’s similar to when she stabs into a victim. She picks up a pencil and jots down the notes of a planet moving through retrograde, swallowing the bite of food. 

It’s not until it’s too late that she’s realized her mistake. The potatoes looked so unusual, so large and a little bit purple even, that she never took note of the green spores growing on the root. Her stomach twists, and Louise falls from her chair in agony. Poisoned! 

The vile food continues to weaken Louise, drowning her in it’s toxicity and leaving her just barely on the brink of death as she grabs the basket of potatoes she was gifted. Digging through to the bottom, she discovers a note, scrawled in busy handwriting- 

_Potatoes grow really well in the End, but when a blighted potato appears, it’s best not to eat it. Unlike their overworld counterparts- they WILL kill!_

_Enjoy Death!- Avon_

Louise growls, ripping the paper apart with her fingers and horns. She should’ve known. She never gets a break, not during demise. She lets a hiccup, leaning against the cabinets of her humble little abode, wishing she had been a little bit more vigilant. The poison constricts through her body, turning her stomach against her and making her blood feel like it’s turned to jelly in her veins. 

She tips her head back, looking out the window of the kitchen. Until ebony eyes turn blank, cold dead glass watching those stars they loved continue to dance.

(526 words)


	15. Defense Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I saw your sona likes farming so have some Void enjoying the fruits of his labor (haha get it). I know way too much about wheat cropping, but...maybe now your crops will love the nutrients you so graciously provided? Circle of life and all that?
> 
> Thank you for the art I love it, great work with traditional drawing that would freak me tf out
> 
> cw: stabbing

Void runs the hoe through the rich soiled earth, watching it till outward and make way for him to spread the pumpkin seeds he hopes to grow. The days are growing shorter, the winds with a bite in it’s teeth, the leaves turning a menagerie of brilliant colors, and Void is busy on the surface rather than digging through his mines. 

Almost all his crops are ready for harvest. He’s already gathered his first round of wheat, and is about to reap the second harvest before planting winter hay. Apples fall from the fruit laden trees, to which he can bake as many pies and ciders as he wants, but also to make enchanted apples to protect himself with. 

But his favorite plant to grow was the pumpkins. He adds bonemeal to the soil, and watches the seedling grow and begin to create the gourd. Void is so invested in his farm, he almost doesn’t hear the wingbeats above him. 

Almost. He looks to the sky, at first thinking it was phantoms, but it was midday! No, these wings were bigger, blocking out the sun. And in the shadow, a weapon flies from the darkness. A trident digs into Void’s shoulder, the farthest left one nearly puncturing his neck. The prongs bury through his slime and endermen body, pinning him to the rich soil he just tilled. 

Void knows a thing or two about tridents- he has one of his own, after all- and he’s quick to attempt to pull the shafted weapon off by using the pommel above. But his arms are batted away, the weapon dug deeper when his assailant reclaims her trident. Avon twists the cyan metal, making sure Void stays down. Blood pours from the open wounds, meeting the soft dirt and pooling in the divots around his pumpkin vines. 

“I hear pumpkins like blood-enriched soil. They’ll grow nice and big with your help.”

(318 Words)


	16. Hit Kenjo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi I wanna say first that I love your art and your minesona looks super cool I just had to write about her! Your art and comics make me giggle all the time. 
> 
> also totally this is inspired by How to Train Your Dragon. Seeing as Kenjo's a viking and Avon's a dragon(heart), i inspired this battle to the opening scene of httyd1, so it's best read with the score "This is Berk" or "Test Drive" to get the full feel (at least, that's what was on repeat for me XD)
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> cw: burning

Kenjo hears the blast, followed by the sound of fire crackling at a searing temperature, burning the intricately carved wood and green thatch roof like kindling. She leaps from her bed, her hand already on her bow, and yanks open the heavy dark oak door. 

Purple flame, the smoke and tongues a toxic purple color, burns across the village roofs. The stout buildings burn black with smoke, old wood burning hot and low. A spruce pine falls across the dirt path, splintering embers of flame exploding out like shrapnel, but Kenjo scrabbles over it, unfazed by the dragonfire burning around her. 

She's focused on the black form in the sky, blacking out the stars as it’s massive form flies over the village. And from the void, fire erupts. Raining from the sky, the toxic purple flame erupts from the maw of the dragon, setting the farms ablaze. Wheat burns and crackles, and the massive wingbeats of black and grey wings fan the flames. The lacquered wood buildings and intricately carved crossed roofs, play with the shadows thrown by the flames, making the open mouthed beasts seem much larger, much scarier. 

But there’s only one dragon here, and Kenjo plans to remind the beast what vikings do to dragons. She escapes the heat and fire, the rush of bodies in the village as people race to put out the fire and save the crops. Away from the glaring light of the fire, Kenjo is able to take aim. 

She draws her bow back until the feathered fletching tickles against her cheek. Waits for the wind to be just right, when the locks of her choppy ombre hair are free from her face. She takes a deep breath, tensing up the string and her body. 

Then fires. The arrow bursts through the fire, tip alighting and shooting through the air- a meteor in the sky. The flaming tip pierces through the grey wing, and the dragon above veers away- revealing a second form in the air. Much smaller, more nimble. A harder target. 

Exactly what Kenjo searches for. A challenge. The smaller form disappears behind the ender dragon, as the second swoops low. Low enough for Kenjo to see the brilliant purple eyes of the beast, the grey spines down it’s back. Hell, she can even see herself in it’s eyes. 

Embers and ash are stirred up as the beast divebombs, forcing Kenjo to hide her eyes and nose from the burning debris with the heavy fur, brown and cyan tunic a mask to the blaze. Her purple cape snaps against her shoulder. 

From the fury of ash and ember, cloaked in darkness, another shade of purple fabric appears. The other form, a dragonheart. Human with dragon wings, brushing ash from the scales of her partner into the wind. 

Kenjo shoots an arrow, but Avon ducks aside, and the bolt buries harmlessly into a burning building. From behind the dragon wings and purple cloak, a trident appears in Avon's hand, flourishing and sparking against the ground. "Leave this village, it stands upon a stronghold. Dragon territory."

Kenjo laughs, leaning against her bow like a cane. "We could leave. But we're vikings. We have…. Stubbornness issues." 

As soon as the last words left Kenjo's lips, she surges forward and that's her bow against the dragonheart’s legs. She get a coy, cat-like grin at the startled response, and the two go into battle. 

A well matched fight, between viking and dragon. Kenjo agrees its a worthwhile battle, as she chases across rooftops to get a line of sight on Avon. She can hear axes and swords swinging in the distance, other villagers fighting off the ender dragon across the flames. 

Balancing on the rooftop, feet dug into the spines of the serpent pinnacle, Kenjo faces Avon. Drawing back her bow, trying to ignore the wounds she's won. The burning on her legs, the cut under her chin, the chaotic blood splattered across her face from an even more chaotic fight. 

Avon steps back, but realizes she’s run out of rooftop. The kitten smile turns to a cheshire grin. “You’ve run out of ground, monster.” 

There was Kenjo’s biggest mistake. That single word, monster, sent Avon into a frenzy. With a roar, she takes off. Not in retreat, towards the flames below. Rather, she flies full speed at Kenjo, tackling the leather armor and sending them both into the air. Kenjo tries to fight back, tries to kill the dragon like a viking always does, but Avon has the upper hand. Avon twists around, using her trident of pry Kenjo’s grip off her cloak. 

Two purple fabrics dance above the purple blaze. Kenjo’s cape dangles with the rest of her body, held up by the scruff of her furred shoulders. Avon’s flutters with her wings, body bloody and beaten, but in full control of the situation. 

From the flames, the ender dragon appears, ivory teeth and purple eyes staring into Kenjo’s soul. Her maw opens up, and at the back of it’s throat Kenjo can see purple flames grow and broil as the dragon sparks up a ball of fire. 

“At least you die in battle. Till Valhalla.” Avon chuckles, and searing purple burns across Kenjo.

(871 words)


	17. Hit Storyteller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your sona looks so freaking cool, especially the featureless face and everything? I hope you enjoy the story, i tried my best to get the Storyteller's characteristics right, and it turned out to be quite a long one!
> 
> cw: falling,ripped apart

The void doesn’t affect the Storyteller like it affects typical people. She’s able to walk among the End islands as if she were an enderman, unbothered by the endless darkness below the floating islands. The void can’t rip apart what’s hardly together in the first place. 

One thing that the Storyteller keeps a close eye on is the sky. The millions of billions of stars, so close together that it’s more like static than starlight. Millions of billions of worlds, and she’s in between them all, here in the End. In the void, where lost things go. Who knows what the Storyteller will find here. Faces long lost to memories forgotten? Stories abandoned or left to burn? 

She doesn’t know. But she does know one thing- there’s a danger that she must watch out for. The ender dragon. She watches the stars, searching for a black silhouette to block them out, for purple eyes to turn on her. 

But the skies are empty. Perhaps the ender dragon is hunting somewhere else? The Storyteller pulls out her clock, but the the hands spin every which way, no rhyme or reason to their oscillations. Ticking at random, fast then slow, long then short. Even here, time gets lost. 

In the distance, a building appears, just off the main island, sitting on one of the satellite grounds. A small obsidian cottage, with a garden full of fresh, ripe crops. Ready to be sown. Overworld trees and Chorus trees grow together, in between plots of dirt and endstone. Most peculiar of all, a stream of purple hued water runs like a creek across the small island. 

This is too well cared for to be just another lost thing. A curling grin, bearing sharp, daggerlike teeth appears when the Storyteller sees a figure moving within the cottage, the candlelight bouncing off shelves and shelves of books. She pats her belt of masks, ready to add another to the list. 

The Storyteller slinks in the darkness of the End, avoiding the lanterns and keeping her starry cloak against the starry sky. She waits until the victim in the cottage is busy roasting potatoes, her back turned and wings blocking the door, to slip inside. Creeping in like the night at twilight, the Storyteller lurches forward clawed hands reaching around black wings and blond hair, the enormous brim of her hat eclipsing all light. 

In the same breath, the Storyteller grabs for Avon’s face when the dragonheart turns, revealing a trident and spearing through the Storyteller’s noncorporeal form. It causes her to stumble back, but even as Avon frees her prongs from her chest, the Storyteller just chuckles. “Could’ve taken the easy way, dragon.”

“I never go down without a fight.” Avon grins, then ricochets her trident off the ebony obsidian walls. The strong material hardly even chips, and the trident only stops when the Storyteller blocks it’s path with her own blade. The Storyteller’s cloak spreads wide, a canopy blocking out light as she lets her sword arm move back, other hand coming to the front for balance. 

Following the motion of the fight, the Storyteller takes the lead in the fight. Her flanged netherite sword swings forward, cutting through the distance in between her and Avon, nicking the dragonheart in the shoulder. Without pause, the Storyteller attacks again, this time aiming for a swift stab to the chest. Bloodthirsty, excited for the sensation of sharp metal gutting a person alive. 

The shaft of the trident blocks the Storyteller, Avon twisting and digging the pommel into her opponent’s solar plexus. The Storyteller retreats. Her hand moves from the painful aching to her belt, fingers closing around the glass vial and tossing it to Avon’s feet. Coils of black erupt and wisp around Avon. She opens her wings to attempt to fan them away, but she’s too slow. 

And now she’s even slower. The slowness potion turns Avon’s movements to honey. But to Avon, the Storyteller is faster than a rabbit. She barely has the time to react with each blow, barely blocking one after another, the dark purple a blur to Avon. Some blows narrowly hit, leaving red streaks of blood to pour from Avon’s skin and threads to fray and snap. 

The Storyteller is sure she has Avon backed against a wall. Literally. One hand wraps around Avon’s wings, pinning them down. The other brings the sharp, deadly tip of her sword against black membrane. She’s going to have one hell of a story to tell when she has these. 

Blood pools around the tip of the sword as she cuts in. Abruptly, however, the Storyteller is no longer on her feet. Rather, glass shatters around her, purple and grey stained shards raining around her. She catches a glimpse of Avon, jumping to her feet at a normal speed. The potion wore off.

The Storyteller jolts against the trunk of a chorus tree. Glass rains from the sky, sparkling like the stars in the sky. A chorus fruit pops free. Adding insult to injury it bonks the Storyteller on the head. 

Avon throws her trident. The cold metal nicks the Storyteller, leaving a gash in her clothes and ripping her cloak. The Storyteller scrabbles to her feet, trying to avoid the broken glass with her hand, the other tucking away into her pockets. Avon gives chase, wings beating and quickly gaining on the Storyteller. 

She feels her cloak go taught around her neck, stopping the Storyteller dead in her tracks. The night sky fabric is yanked over her head, and she is somersaulted into the thin sky of the End. With a throw in all Avon’s might, she throws the Storyteller over the edge of the island. 

The Storyteller falls. Pale yellow endstone spires bite into the void like stained teeth, sparse air whistling across her ears and rippling the brim of her hat, the seam of her cloak. Falling, she feels the void claim her body. But it does nothing to her. It doesn’t tear her apart, killing her instantly. Whatever she is, it’s not matter that is rare in endless space. 

She was doomed to fall. Fall for eternity, trapped in the void. Lost between worlds, lost even to the End. 

But the Storyteller wasn’t that easy to get rid of. Her fingers grasp the soft flesh of the fruit she kept hidden in her pocket, careful not to pop the delicate specimen. Not until she takes a bite of the tangy, sweet meat and feels the world warp around her. The tingling in her mouth matches the tingling in her toes, sparks of flavor and magic swirling around her. 

Ground appears beneath her feet, and the sensation of falling abruptly ends. The Storyteller is a bit dazed. She’s not quite used to teleporting, especially not from falling for infinity. Even more surprised, though, is Avon, directly in front of the Storyteller. She had just finished dusting dirt and glass from her gloves, though a few shards and specks remain in the wild fluff of her hair. 

Immediately sighting in on the Storyteller, her wings open as a threat. Or just to try and look bigger. The dragonheart is back in attack mode, tackling the intruder to her home. “I’ll make sure you stay dead this time.” 

“Good luck, puppet.” The Storyteller laughs. She digs her elbow into Avon’s throat, then wraps her into a tight chokehold. Such an uncouth way to dispose of this nuisance, but at this point the Storyteller just wants her gone. And those wings. 

Said wings flaps and beat against the Storyteller, sending her hat dancing across the garden before settling overtop a pumpkin sprout. Despite the tightening grip around her throat, Avon manages to take off the ground. It actually wasn’t that hard- the Storyteller weighs almost nothing. Avon thrashes in the playwright’s grip, rising higher and higher. 

Above the obsidian towers, crystals twisting and crackling with energy, Avon breaks from from the Storyteller. For a brief second, the two are frozen midair. Avon backflips, wings open wide. Hanging above the ground, free from all confines that hold her down. The Storyteller writhes in the air, one last desperate attempt to beat Avon in their battle, feeling the tendrils of violet mist curl against her featureless face. 

Falling again, this time over the rocky terrain of the End island. She may be safe from the void, but even she can’t survive a splat like this. The Storyteller refuses to watch her death rise up to meet her, rather look back at Avon- memorize the one she will return to claim, especially those wings. She will relish in the feeling of her blade cutting through those wings. 

Avon’s form is illuminated by a beam of light erupting from an end crystal, the gem spinning rapidly as it releases energy to feed- 

The ender dragon. She’s returned, and diving right for the Storyteller. Avon disappears behind the silhouette of her fanged friend, and teeth gnash into her form. Ripping her apart, limb by limb and atom by atom. Wisps of purple, shreds of fabric raining onto the endstone. 

Never fallen, just floating to the ground.

(1526 words)


	18. Defense Buttons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank ye so much for the art! it's so cute and i honestly love Avon's "huh' face towards her ripped wings! 
> 
> Other participants talked about peaceful quiet deaths, and i thought Buttons was too pure to die at Avon's blade. So instead they get to enjoy some nature as they pass! I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoy the art!
> 
> cw: explosions, head trauma

Buttons digs through the massive amount of chests they have all over the place. They didn’t have a chest monster- they lived in one. Not because they had massive builds that required enormous amounts of material. No, Buttons just loved having as much stuff as they could ever need. At least they don’t have to go mining or collecting when they need something, not when they have it all right here. 

They find the hoe they were looking for, checking to make sure it’s ready to till their land, to begin a new rotation of crops, then walks from their house to the farm. They whistle along the way, dress shoes scuffling through the grass. They clamber up to their farm, raised but not fenced, and brush the dirt from their pants before finally getting to work. 

Working in their farm is therapeutic for Buttons, watching as metal and mortal hands work together to turn dirt over into rich, dark soil, and burying the seeds deep in the ground. They could get lost for hours caring for the carrots, wheat, pumpkins, and potatoes in their farm. Day and night, if only the night didn’t bring the monsters. 

At least when the sun rises, most monsters burn away. 

But not all. Buttons hears the hiss before the blast, and weakly swings their hoe. It does little to stop the exploding creeper, or the blast that sends Buttons flying. Their skin burns, fabric seared to their torso and left in tatters. 

A tree stops Buttons from going flying off the cliff face they made their home by, cracking their head on the hard wood. They slump against the bark, slowly drifting in and out of consciousness. Their vision is blurred, but the red that stains their chest is easily visible. They attempt to stand up, but the pain is too much. 

Buttons lays their head back, breath labored with every new rise and fall. Pain engulfs their form, everywhere except their mechanical parts, and for once they wish they had a mechanical head as well. 

They could wallow in their pain until it consumes them and drags them to death, or they could enjoy their last few minutes alive. And Buttons chooses the latter. They ignore the pain, the feeling of slowly slipping from life, and instead watches the leaves of the tree play with the dappled light, the birds that have made their home among the verdant bushes, and their beloved farm. Growing, living. Thriving. They see a seed already starting to grow, new life appearing as another snuffs out. 

Buttons lays their head back, and closes their eyes. Accepting their death with a smile. At least there was peace in their death.

(452 words)


	19. Love Roxy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not quite a hit cause Roxy's fucking dead, but i really wanted to show my appreciation for Roxy's hard work as the server admin and keeping Demise fun, interesting, and spoopy! Happy Halloween!

The clock strikes twelve, and Roxy feels the brush of magic cross over her cold, grey corpse. The wave of magic ignores her, denying her the strength of a new day to fight back. But to those still living, they’re reinvigorated for more battles. Roxy admits she misses that feeling, the sensation of a new day coursing through her wounded body. Giving her the strength to keep fighting. 

But at least now, she has the grace of death. Roxy admits- she looks pretty fucking good even in her monochrome form. She gazes at her dress for a second, watching the sparkles like stars in the misty grey nights as she bouncing her leg up and down. At the trough of every oscillation, her heel taps against the quartz floor of the watcher’s tower, creating a metronome down the halls. She notices that her silver tiara is slightly askew atop her head, visible in the reflection of her watcher tablet, and she shifts it back to perfection atop the waving curls of her head.

From their ivory tower, the watchers should seem untouchable. But among this group of misfits, there are always those who wish to kill the gods. She finds it quite amusing, some who simply laugh in their face. It brings Roxy and the others back down to earth, reminding them they were once just spunky mortals as well. Others made the desperate climb to the top, and battled fiercely to do damage to the watchers. And, of course, no pantheon is ever complete without backstabbing. 

Such is the game of demise. Its magic is cruel, and the players crueller. Eventually, once the curse has been satisfied by the amount of bloodshed, it will let go of Roxy and the others, let the color and life return to their bodies while the magic slinks away for another slumber. Things will return to normal, but new friendships and enemies formed in the darkness of the battle. 

But for Roxy, sometimes she misses the warmth, the joy and peace. She can hardly step outside without having bloodthirsty participants searching for her blood. Watcher blood has quite a token of power. Sometimes she goes on a hunt herself, when she feels the urge of the curse tugging on her unbeating heart. Even among closest allies and friends, there is still an element of fear. Traitors and turncoats. Some embrace that grim reality of demise, others shun it. 

She can’t help but miss a bit of the pure, goofy fun of this dark season. When the darkness of the night grows longer, the chill in the wind howls to bright, starlit nights and sharp curves of the moon. She misses the feeling of ripping the innards of a pumpkin, not a person, only to bake the seeds later and snack on them throughout the month. She misses the pure joy of running, not away from someone that wishes to kill her, but rather towards a house, pillowcase full of candy. Simpler days.

Roxy closes her eye, taking a second to realign her thoughts to the present. She needs to focus. She needs to do her namesake- watch. When she opens her eye, four others also blink open. Tucking her hair poof out of the way, each eye training on a different screen. Watching. 

The Eret cult was doing their thing- betraying one another, with the utmost joy and glee in cutting each other’s throats. She knew they’d be this way from the beginning, but every time she can’t help but giggle watching them play judas. 

On another screen, Roxy watches a dapper spider lurking in on his prey. The mob boss had his target trapped in the spun shattered web he’s built, struggling and begging for mercy. But Spelle doesn’t have mercy. She looks away at the sound of gunshots, remembering someone else she needs to keep a tense eye on.

Sphor has been tucked away in their hole for days, working nonstop on whatever plan they have. Roxy isn’t quite sure how they managed to barter with the curse itself to stay alive, when they should’ve bled out two hours after the massacre on them. Maybe they promised a blood sacrifice worth of all demise, or perhaps gave their own soul to the magic, or something that even Roxy can’t begin to imagine. Either way, they’re still alive, by some miracle. 

The flash of an iron sword, deflecting an attack off Dawn, has become a pretty common occurrence by now. Roxy is amazed that a group like that could become so well organized. She’s got her own secret service, keeping her alive. They’re fast with deflects, even at their own endangerment. 

But something- or someone- catches Roxy’s eyes. A flash of purple, from a screen that shows the entrance to the Watcher’s tower. Too fast for Roxy to identify who it is, but surely nothing good. She stands from her throne, heels clicking across the quartz. She looks down, watching the green grass for any movement. A flash of black, met with bobbing blonde and puttering purple. Avon’s fleeing the tower, wings opening as she floats down to the bottom of a hill. The dragonheart, still very much alive and beating, turns and locks her two eyes with Roxy’s many. 

Avon offers a two fingered salute, then disappears into the sky. Never even noticed by the growing horde of dead or bloodthirsty living. Peculiar… Avon almost never leaves the safety of the End. And most of the time, its with her partner in crime. “That can’t be good.” 

Roxy sighs, and with a wave of her hand, she dons her watcher uniform. A purple cape materializes from starlight, and her primary eye is masked by a matching mask. Despite the blindfold across her face, she can see. Magic opens the stitched eye on the fabric, and she gains the vision of the omnipotent watcher that she is. She’s at her full strength now, able to create and destroy with a snap of her fingers. 

She phases through the floor, floating to the bottom of the watcher’s tower. She’s not sure what Avon would want to do with the Watcher’s tower. All the watchers are dead. Liz died just a day or so ago, taken out in the bloodbath. She was the last warmblood in the tower, and even Roxy had the desire to reach out. Either to take in the feeling of warmth that Liz exuded, or strangle it from her, she doesn’t know. But now everyone within the tower is as cold as the material that builds it. 

At the bottom of the spiraling stairs, Roxy returns to her corporeal form and gazes through her mask. Measuring the danger that waits on the other side of the door. She doesn’t even touch the entryway until he has some modicum of understanding of what’s on the other side. 

She doesn’t sense danger, but that doesn’t mean it’s not hidden. Carefully, Roxy opens the door. No trap activates when the door moves, no arrow comes flying in. No poison is dropped, no lava spread, no weapons lunged. There’s nothing. 

Roxy opens the door all the way, her lips twisting with confusion, eyes remaining hidden beneath her mask. “What the hell is that dragon trying to do?”

She steps out, and jumps out of her skin when her foot knocks something over. She feints to the side, prepared for attack. But the jack-o-lantern rolls harmlessly to the side, spilling it’s contents from it’s grinning lips and lobotomized head. 

It’s candy. All kinds of sweets, from chocolate to sour tarts, mixed with random bits of plastic and toys. Vampire teeth that glow in the dark, gauze stretched out to be like cobwebs, even glowsticks. They seem so childish, but...Roxy’s smiling. 

She picks up the pumpkin, shoving it’s candy innards back in through it’s mouth. She snaps a glowstick, purple light casting color on a soft smile. She digs through, finding little spider rings and stickers. So simple, but it warms Roxy’s dead heart. Reminds her of simpler times. She looks up, across the bloodstained and burnt fields. Pulling off her mask, she tries to find Avon, but she’s completely disappeared, back to the End. The jack-o-lantern smiles at Roxy, ready to light the tower with it’s funny face- once Roxy finds a torch. 

Roxy discovers a sticker featuring a bright orange pumpkin with a very pitiful pun- ‘creep it real’. Roxy giggles, closing the door behind her with her heels and running up the stairs. “Hey Liz, I found your doppelganger! Why are you running? Get back here!”


	20. Hit Marzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I saw you like space and plants, and i like plants in space, so this was practically a match made in heaven! I don't know if it's any good or not, but i hope you like it!

The plants on this planet were unlike any other. Marzo took as many pictures, notes, and samples as she can hold. She only had some much carry capacity in her suit, and at this point she was shoving test tube samples just about anywhere she could fit them. 

The plants were strange, the way they bloomed in the night. Perhaps it was because the star this planet orbited was too fierce in the daylight, and would burn away the plants. But as soon as twilight set in, the ground would boil with pale leaves, roots, and branches as the plants burst from the caves and soil to drink in the moonlight. Three moons reflect to the ground, and Marzo watches in awe as the forest crops up around her. Where the land was barren and dull, a dense jungle has now sprouted from the caves and burrows the plants hide in. 

Marzo may have found heaven, or at least her version of it. She could stay here forever, studying how the plants move so quickly, how they evolved to live underground, why they are the pale colors they are. But she knows she has to return to her ship eventually. She can’t leave those idiots alone for long. Even when she falls asleep, sometimes she wakes up to chaos. Either something as simple as a yelling match over a game of cards, a burning toaster, or even as big as a blown up fission engine. 

She haphazardly places a stopper over a vial of a pale blue vine, one of the fastest growing plants she observed. Marzo pats along her black and red armor, growling when she feels every pocket, pouch, nook, and cranny filled with other samples. Even the joints of her spacesuit are playing host to leaves and soil samples. 

The only place she can think to put it is her voidpack. She twists around, plucking the box from the rear of her belt and looking at the mechanism. It takes the oxygen from the air and thins it down to nearly void. Exactly what she needs to breathe. The cannula snakes from the pack up to her nostrils, where she can feel the ozone passing through her and back to be recycled by the machine. 

Marzo knows she shouldn’t mess with her voidpack, but... _science_. These plants are incredible, this planet is incredible. She can’t leave any sample behind. So she places the glass vial into an empty container on her pack, and clambers through the flourishing forest back to her ship. She trips over a root, spilling a few samples around her like a burst pinata, cursing to herself. She picks up the soil sample, a leaf plucked from a flowering tree, and a pressurized valve of atmosphere samples.

Back in the ship, Marzo dumps her prizes onto her lab table. She removes the leaves and soil from her suit joints, opens pockets and containers of seeds, liquid samples, and notes. Lastly, she remembers to pull out her notebook, full of scribbles and chicken scratch observations. She was so excited, seeing so much happening around her, her poor hand couldn’t keep up with her mind. 

She looks over her goodies, taking a deep breath of ozone void. She feels like she’s missing something. Something important. But she can’t place what it is. Must not have been that important, or she would’ve remembered. Better get to work, maybe she’ll remember. 

The first sample she tests is the atmosphere. To her surprise, the spectroscopy shows that the oxygen levels were quite low on this strange planet. In fact, she probably could remove her cannula and breathe just fine. This planet has wormed its way into her heart, it may very well be her favorite ever discovered. 

Marzo runs more tests, the sound of machinery spinning, calibrating, and calculating matching to the sound of her constant breathing, her voidpack taking the dense air and thinning it out. Giving her life. 

But, with her back turned, completely oblivious, she doesn’t notice that she’s not the only piece organism taking advantage of the voidpack’s process. A stopper gone missing when she tripped over a root, a vine that is the first and fastest to grow every night, fueled by the thin ozone air of it’s tri-mooned home. 

It grows into the voidpack, nestling next to the ozone valve. But the vine isn’t happy with sharing this lucrative source with the other host. No, it would get rid of this parasite. The vine shifts, growing at a crawling pace up the thin tube. Blue spindle dragging it’s way around Marzo’s back, looping over her ear. 

And finally reaching her nose. The entire time, Marzo didn’t notice the invasion, too focused on observing the crescent-shaped flowers surrounding vibrant purple pistols. Such incredible alien life before her, she doesn’t notice the alien life behind her. 

At least, not until it’s too late. The vine twists, cutting off all air flow to Marzo. Her next breath in leaves a vacuum between her and the plant, forcing her to cough and gasp for air. But the dense oxygen in the ship wasn’t meant for her. It was like breathing in water. 

Marzo tips back in her chair, yanking the cannula free from her nose. She gasps, struggling to find relief in every breath. Her head is already swimming, dizzy and faint. She needs her voidpack. She needs the void. 

With shaking fingers, she attempts to rip the vine free from the machinery. But it’s taken root among the metal and plastic. No matter how hard she yanks, it holds firm. Growling, Marzo abandons that pack. She has another in her sleeping quarters. 

The ship shifts and tilts, or perhaps that’s Marzo, as she staggers to the door. Her lungs are burning, desperate for relief and the comforting haze of thin air. She’s not meant for this kind of air, she’s meant for the void. She curses her crewmmates for being such dense breathers. 

Black dots swim in Marzo’s vision, blocking out large portions of the hall as she struggles to open airlocks. By the time she’s reached the crew quarters, she’s crawling for her room. Her muscles and lungs are screaming for relief, her vision tunneled to the shining knob into her quarters. Knowing that just beyond that barrier, her other voidpack was sitting. Waiting for her. Salvation is just beyond one door. 

Marzo never makes it. The voidpack remains unused, and a pale lilac hand rests on the door, unable to reach up just a few more centimeters and turn the knob. No one could even tell Marzo was suffocating on the air- her skin was already purple, as if she had drowned years ago. 

She should’ve remembered that vine she haphazardly stuffed in her voidpack. She should’ve been more secure with sealing it, or not put it in there in the first place. Because if Marzo knows one thing about life, is it will always, _always_ find a way. 

(1165 words


	21. Defense Drago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I....i can't kill a dragon. I just can't, and besides, it's against Avon's creed. She's a protector of dragons, and a dragonheart herself! 
> 
> THank you for the art (even if you were sicked on me by the mob boss), it means a lot!

A shadow passes over the forest, large and looming. Faster than a cloud, with open wings, a tail, and legs. Definitely bigger than a phantom, and smarter than one too. She doesn’t burn in the sunlight, at least. 

But Drago still burns. Not herself, but she burns down the forest, swooping low. Erupting from her maw, curls of flame dance across treetops, fanned by wings as they beat up and down. Soaring into the sky, Drago turns and observes her handiwork. The forest burns, flames hopping from one canopy to another. She keeps a close eye on every tongue of yellow and orange, and when she notices one flame get out of line, she sends a bluster of wind to put it out. 

From the sky, she can see the land she’s clearing for her next home. It’s going to be big, big enough for both her human form and her dragon form to walk the halls whenever she pleases. Rooms built for dragons and people. Maybe Drago can find other dragons to invite, or at least people that won’t attack a dragon on sight. She still has bruises from those village golems. 

Once the fire has done it’s job burning away her intended footprint, she swings over a lake. So low, her talons and wingtips brush the water, and she can see her purple and green scales in the reflection. She dips her head low, and opens her lips, allowing the water to fill in between ivory teeth and the pouches where her flames burst forth. Turning back to the forest, the very maw that burned it down now douses the flame. 

There’s still some stumps that need dug up, but Drago quickly gets distracted by something else. The warm feeling of ash and embers, warming her thick plated scales. She jumps around, throwing the dust into the air with a whip of her tail and pounce of her feet, then rolls in the warm coals beneath the wet ash. She chortles, a low, grumbling roar. Drago knows she need to get work done. She needs to get building. But for now, she’s happy to bask in the warmth of fresh coals. 

(363 words)


	22. Defense Dory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love love love the art, the posing looks great! Also while i was writing this Red says hello!

Dory wipes the blood from her arrows, kicking the soil of the end. It was a hell of a fight, but now Avon remains on the stone, almost surely dead. Dory knows this isn’t her final life, but this should knock her down a peg or two. 

Dory can’t wait to get out of the End. The air was so thin, and the feeling of ozone, like the moment before a lightning strike. It has the fur of her ears and tail standing on end, and the adrenaline of the battle has her standing on edge. 

She twirls her bow, clasping it against her back and rolling grey shoulders. It’s weird, how her muscles still get tight even though she’s been demised. It’s not like she needs to warm up when she’s a greyskin. Repositioning the gilded plates of her armor, she stands upon the bedrock frame of the portal. Back to the overworld, to tell her fellow dead of the job done. 

A beam of white light blinds Dory, and she stumbles back in surprise. The beam rises from the obsidian towers, shining down like a spotlight and connecting to the body she had left behind. Left bleeding out, near death, Avon lay with arrows protruding from her skin and wings. Dory watches in disbelief as Avon’s wounds heal, and she slowly rises to her knees. 

“Damn you ender dragons!” She forgot about the end crystals, and that they heal dragons. She grasps her bow, turning it up and aiming it into the sky. Guessing where she can strike the end crystal. If she blows it up while it’s healing Avon, it’ll hurt her instead. Maybe even kill her. 

She sights down the shaft of the arrow, and takes a deep breath. 

The next second she finds herself sprawling on the endstone, cheek burning as Avon reels back her fist. Towering over Dory, Avon breathes heavy, still clearly in pain. But the wounds close, leaving only thin white scars across her body. Avon stretches a bloody arm out, and in the distance the sound of a trident bangs across the End, before returning to Avon’s hand. She raises the weapon over her head, in perfect alignment for Dory’s chest. “Next time, handle the end crystals first.”

(377 words)


	23. Hit Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy!

Louise creeps through the twisting, turning tunnels deep beneath the ground. The only sound she hears is the distant hiss, growl, and rattle of monsters, and every so often her own curse words echoing off the broken stone brick. This place is a maze, and she’s a rat running it. A confused, radioactive rat like the giant ones she grew up seeing. All these walls look the same, every turn leads to more hallways in a confusing, irrational disorder. She doesn’t have the stars to guide her, and right now she’s mentally berating herself for not even bringing a compass. Her last ender eye broke about a dozen turns ago. 

But she’s determined to find the End Portal, to get her way in. There’s no greater challenge than the End. To defeat the ender dragon, amongst the tall beings that lurk, listless in the void, land lost between worlds. The danger of the endless darkness below the floating islands, the thin air that empties her lungs. One false step, one good hit from the ender dragon or an enderman and she’ll be torn apart by the void. 

But Louise craves a good fight, and no one has been able to defeat the ender dragon in this world. She can’t wait to feel her blade slice through the scales and muscle, blood spilt across her sword and the ground. It’s a good thing her skirt is already red. At the thought of a battle, Louise pulls the barrels of her hair, like purple waves curling against the sea. She pulls it tight and tucked against her crown, held up by a red scrap of fabric. She knots a bow around her horns, and continues down the halls. 

The sound of her heels against the crumbling stone, only muffled by the moss growing in the cracks, harmonizes with the soft thunk of distant boots. Louise freezes. Even her breath stops as she listens to the sounds echoing in the hall. 

Footsteps, much to purposeful to be a mob. It’s not the scrape of dragging zombie feet, or the clatter of brittle bones, or even the thump of creeper paws. Someone else is in this stronghold. Louise doesn’t have to guess who. She knows that two people patrol the only open End portal in this world. They broke every other portal they could find, to protect their home. 

Louise lets out a high pitched squeak when she runs face first into Exnoh, immediately leaping back and putting her sword between the two. Once her irradiated heart has return to it’s normal pace- or as normal as it can be- she gets a coy smile easing beneath empty black eyes. “Hello, Ender Enders. Exnoh, you almost need to crouch just to walk these halls.” 

Neither of the group seem impressed by Louise’s small talk. Not when her sword is pointed at the two. Avon’s hand already had her trident in it, but Exnoh is reaching into her coat for their weapon. Through Exnoh’s mask, a sharp order is declared. “You’re not going into the End. Not while we’re here.” 

“Guess I’ll just have to make sure you’re not.” Louise grins, and lunges her blade to attack Exnoh. Erupting from the navy coat, netherite collides with Louise’s, grinding the metal together for a brief pushing match before Exnoh wins out, her height giving her the leverage needed to send Louise stumbling. 

She rolls out of the way just in time to avoid being skewered on Avon’s trident, the horns on her arms scratching and hitching on the rough stone. She rises to her feet. Faces Avon, and interlocks in battle with the dragonheart. It’s a whirlwind of strikes, both metal and fists. Avon doesn’t back down, as soon as her trident is thrown from her hand she’s curling it into a fist and suckerpunching Louise. 

Louise finds safety behind a stone pillar, waiting until Avon’s running past it to trip her up. Louise drives her knee into Avon’s chin, sending her sprawling across the floor. Without wasting a second, Louise twists her sword and drives it into Avon’s wing. “Such a pretty butterfly.” 

Beneath the gasping pain, a the angry growl of Exnoh is ignored by Louise. She’s marveling at her handiwork, watching Avon Struggle to rip free, just a second too long. A long cut rakes down Louise’s back, violet blood puckering and staining her red and yellow outfit. Louise turns around, using the force of the movement to drive her fist into Exnoh’s gut, then driving her head into the enderman hybrid’s shallowed face. Etching the sharp antlers across purple skin and black mask. Tearing the latter off. 

Exnoh gasps for air, struggling to breathe in the heavy air of the overworld. Blood falls across her cheeks like angry tears. Matching the furious look in his eyes. 

But they’re smiling. Louise doesn’t know why, but she wants to wipe that cocky grin off their face either way. She turns to retrieve her netherite sword from Avon’s wing. 

Instead, she finds her sword buried in her gut. Louise staggers back, shocked at the feeling of her own blade cutting her open. Her lithe fingers grasp at the wound, as if they could catch the violet blood that pours from her or stitch her skin back together. Her back, stinging in pain, crashes against the cold sone wall, hardly a balm to the pain. The other hand not holding her together comes to rest on the wall, and she slowly, like honey dripping from the hive, slides to the floor. 

Exnoh stoops low, picking up her mask and securing it across her bloodied face, taking her first deep breath as Louise’s grows shallower. Beside them, Avon tosses the netherite sword to Louise’s side. She has no use for it. Blood falls from torn membrane, the wounded wing limp on the ground. The taller of the two crouches and meets her eyes with Louise’s. “Don’t mess with the End, or the Ender Enders.” 

The two leave down the maze of halls, footsteps disappearing into echoes, then silence. Leaving Louise to bleed out. Alone, gasping for air. She tips her head back, staring at the roof. Thinking of, beyond the meters of dirt and stone, the stars twinkling above her.


	24. Hit Mercury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Gently holds* Your sona is so cute, i spent so long trying to decide if writing such a awesome character is worth angering your team. But Mercury is worth it! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Cw: falling, gore, wing whump, pinned, blood, broken bones (im so sorry mercury i love your sona)

Mercury ducks just out of the way of the crossbow bolt, feathers whistling as the sharpened rod zips past his ears. He may have gotten a haircut there, though the albino hair is impossible to see against the clouds in the sky. Another bolt, forcing him to barrel roll away. 

Below, chasing after him, a patrol of illagers load their crossbows as they run across the flat swampland. Eyes and crosshairs trained on Mercury. He didn’t see them, not until it was too late. He was just picking blue orchids, entranced by the bright, light blue color that reminds him of the sky. And now he’s being chased, fleeing the battle. He’s not much of a fighter.

But he is one hell of a flyer. He makes it look like a dance with the air, with the sun and clouds his audience. A bolt fires, and he falls, opening his wings over the shallow bog and letting the warm airstreams rise him back to the stars. His wings crest and furl, soaring feathers rippling against the wind and down feathers brushing with the sky. Mercury finds it in himself to even giggle, despite the danger following him. He closes his eyes, drinking in the sensation of flight, the warmth of the sun. 

The cold bite of flint through the meat of his wing, following by searing heat ricocheting up his wing, into his back. Striking him like he’s been shot through the heart. In the second of stutter, another arrow embeds itself in Mercury’s wing. A third makes it’s mark in his back. 

Mercury no long flies, but falls. His wings hang limp as he descends towards the forest below. White feathers dance free, floating down at a lazy pace behind him. An angel falling from grace. Crashing to the ground, blood, dirt, and plumage debris spewing away, marring Mercury’s pale, pink skin. A sickening crunch echoes through his body.

He gasps, struggling to rise to his feet. Mercury turns over, staring at his open wings. Horror etches across his face. Both wings were bent at horrid angles, fragile, hollow bones spearing from the skin. Blood and grime has turned Mercury’s beautiful white wings a patchwork of red and brown, clumps of feathers missing- torn from his skin by the branches above. 

Three arrows puncture through skin, muscle, and bone. Bloodstained arrowtips protruding from soaked red feathers. The blood pools, seeping along the vanes. Pure white dyed dark red, loose feathers plucked by the wind, free to dance in the sky once more. 

Through the pain of the arrows, the crash, Mercury hears dissonant voices, angry snarls and harumphs. The pillagers are still hunting him. He struggles to his feet, gasping with pain, stumbling from side to side. Without his wings to balance, to fly, he’s a sitting duck. 

Mercury still tries to escape. He sees the pale grey skin emerge from the verdant forest, and runs as fast as he can in the opposite direction. Branches rip at his feathers, leaving a trail in his wake. 

A trail the illagers follow, laughing as they toy with their quarry. Mercury hears the sound of a crossbow cocking. They get close enough to grab his dragging pinions, fistful of feathers ripped from his skin. Pinpricks of red ochre turn to trickling streams, weaving red rivers between quills. An arrow whizzes. He ducks. Stumbles into a tree. 

Rests for a second too long. The iron of an axe head digs into Mercury’s wing, snapping bone in half and pinning him to the tree. In his horror, Mercury tries to break free, but is only met with resistance. The axe is not budging, but the tearing noise of his wing and popping at the juncture of his back are. He attempts a weak chance for escape again, this time flapping his other broken wing. 

Another shot, and a bolt skewers Mercury’s wings to the next tree over. The sound of marching feet, of branches breaking, goes quiet. Mercury’s chest rises and falls, the only sound in the clearing. 

He’s trapped. Wings immobilized against the bark, left exposed to the bloodthirsty patrol. Pulling causes pain, but he knows if he remains here, he’ll die for sure. A sharp thwang of tension releasing, followed by a strike in the juncture of wing and back, and Mercury crumbles to his knees. 

The tattered black pants of Mercury’s overalls flutter in the dark green grass, droplets of blood sliding down soft blades of the turf. With each painful, pitiful gasp of air, the unbuttoned side of the overalls swings like a pendulum. The tongue of a clock, slowing as his time draws as short as his breath. He hears the sound of a pillager behind him, the drawing of a crossbow matched with a nasal snicker. But Mercury doesn’t look up. He focuses his red eyes on a loose lock of white hair, watching feathered hair wave back and forth with each breath. 

Wings go limp against the trees, and the patrol continues their path of death. Leaving behind an angel, wings outstretched but never to play in the clouds again. A fallen angel, claimed by the earth once and for all.


	25. Defense Jamie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First off I love love love the art! The details of blood, the shading, the trident looks so freakin cool! And I love Jamie's design and character- so leaderly looking, but in reality is just a raccoon in a coat. He's a fun, different and epic character to write- so expect more from me!

His angry snarls surprised her, swinging her wings and trident. Avon doesn’t even know how he managed to ambush her- she’s meters above the ground. Where the hell did he come from? That’s an answer only he knows, and he’s not about to reveal his secrets. 

Jamie snarls, and sinks both his claws and teeth into the thin wings, feeling bones crunch. Avon attempts to get rid of him, but he holds on tight. “Let go of me you little gremlin!” 

But Jamie is not letting go. In the same way he refuses to stay down in battle, he refuses to let go. Sharp canines bite into skin, puncturing into meat and scraping against bone. Drops of blood fall from his teeth, the taste of iron on the tip of his tongue. 

Avon pries him from her body, the sharp prongs used like a crowbar to get rid of him. But Jamie still holds tight. He feels both drop low into the sky as the dragonheart struggles to keep both their weights in the air. Jamie doesn’t care if he goes down, as long as he brings her with him. 

Wings and weapons beat against him, yet his claws stay firmly wrapped around the skeleton of Avon’s wings. For a second, he forgets that he’s trying to make a killing blow, feeling his tail swinging far, far above the forest below. He can’t help looking down, gulping. The blue tuft of his tail dances in the high winds, bushy fur as big as entire trees this high up. The wind, blustered further by Avon’s wings, pulls and tears at his overcoat. Like white sails in the sky, threatening to rip him off his opponent. 

The membrane gives, and matching clawmarks tear down Avon’s wings. Both Avon and Jamie cry out, although for very different reasons. Avon’s crying out from the pain. Jamie’s crying out as he realizes he’s slipping. He scrabbles for purchase, but the black wing only shreds beneath his talons. 

Avon’s had enough of his weight holding her down, and with one wing little more than bloody ribbons in the air, she flicks the feral little gremlin off her wing. 

Jamie falls, and falls, and falls. Blue sky above him, ground quickly approaching from below. His uniform flails in the wind, white and blue trying to reach for the same colors in the air. His ears are filled with the sound of wind, whistling around his floppy and fuzzy ears, while his tail dances like the end of a meteor falling to earth. 

He’s not the only one falling. Jamie watches as Avon struggles to keep herself aloft, until she can no longer scoop enough wind beneath her wings, and she begins to plummet as well. A toothy smile creases Jamie’s cheeks, ivory canines stained with blood, and he closes his eyes. Let’s himself be cradled by the wind, until he meets the ground. 

(486 words)


	26. Hit Fluid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HI I love your sona and wanted to do a piece but was never really sure how, but then i came off my chemistry lecture and remembered that i see you often in the doin science tag. I hope you enjoy death by improper lab techniques. No eating in lab!

Fluid tempers the blaze heated flame, careful to keep their arms away from the burning flask. They’re on the most dangerous, but most important part of their experiment. Even breathing on the mixture that’s heating could cause it to changes it’s structure, and even worse blow up in their face. 

Of course, Fluid wears a mask and armor, but that doesn’t mean they want to get blown up. Besides, it’s taken days to collect all the materials needed for this experiment. And if Fluid does it correctly, they’ll be able to destroy anyone in their way in this evil game of demise. 

They add a pinch of white powder, followed by exactly three drops of green liquid. No more, no less. The mixture turns the color of a sunrise, pinks and yellows and oranges mixing together as various reactions take place within the liquid. Gas bubbles and rises up, leaving a stench that Fluid can smell even through their mask. It’s horrible. It’s working. 

Fluid steps back, picking up a quill and taking notes. Looking away from the burning apparatus for a second. They love chemistry, especially this kind of stuff. All the uses from just a few ingredients, all depending on how they mix together, when they mix together, and how much mixed together. 

When Fluid looks up at the sound of clattering glass, they stare in horror as a purple pellet is dropped into the mixture. “I think your potion could use some chorus fruit.” 

The thin flesh of the fruit pops, and Avon ducks behind a table just in time to avoid the explosion. It rocks all of Fluid’s lab, sending glass shattering and the acid splattering all around. Avon covers her nose and mouth with her cloak, and flies through the open skylight, leaving Fluid to bask in the disaster at their hands. 

The experiment has gone totally awry. But Fluid isn’t worried about all the materials they’ve lost, or the inability to use their secret plan they had. No, right now Fluid has to deal with three very dangerous situations. Broken glass, digging through their armor and into their skin like shrapnel. Acid eating through the tough armor and burning their skin, as well as all the materials in the lab around them- including their blasted notes! But the worst, and most dangerous, is the purple gass that is filling the air, fueled by the burning blaze that sits under the shattered flask. 

The gas gets through Fluid’s mask, constricting their throat and forcing them to cough. Their head gets dizzy, and as they stumble to escape the lab, they find they can’t control their body. Fingers spaz, legs come out from under them, arms dance wildly. They can’t even grab hold of the handle of the door. They’re trapped, bleeding from the glass, burning from the acid, and choking from the gas. Three states of matter, all working against them to kill. 

“Damn that dragon.” Fluid growls, vision growing hazy as they stare at the broken lab equipment. The blood, the glass, the gas. They knew their experiment was dangerous, but Fluid thought it was worth the risk. And they weren’t expecting to be ambushed in the safety of their lab. Or for anyone to know exactly how to make it worse for Fluid. But Avon hit Fluid right where it would hurt the most, and all has been lost. All that for nothing. 

All that science has turned against Fluid. They’re not sure if it’s bleeding out, eaten by acid, or the gas that kills them first. But one way or another, there’s no way they’re getting out of this. At least, not alive. 

(611 words)


	27. Hit Missie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy luv, it's been fun to play with your sona again, she's really fun to characterize and try and get into the head (tv?) of a plant monster thing. 
> 
> cw: burned

Missie creeps through the End, as softly as her clumsy vessel will wobble along the endstone. It’s a good thing she doesn’t feel most of the rough, grating endstone on her feet, that the corpse she inhabits has lost most of it’s nerve endings. It’s also good that she doesn’t have eyes to anger the endermen around her. She wanders through the tall beings, without a care in the world of which way her static tv screen stares. 

She can’t help but notice that the sky above her looks like her screen face. Fuzzy stars, so numerous they blur together into white noise. The colors of the screen turn light, bright, positive colors to match her serene feeling. She could stand there and watch the stars forever. 

But her view is obstructed, when a shadowed figure crosses between her and the darks sky. Light colored static turns dark, and She turns to face the ender dragon. Not exactly why she came here, but it disturbed her peaceful stargazing. She doesn’t like being disturbed. 

From the dragon’s back, Avon vaults in between Missie and Jeane. “Leave now. You trespass in the End with ill intent.” 

Missie pauses, as if considering the order. But she shakes her head, antenna bouncing back and forth. One looks about ready to snap, until a vine creeps up and holds it tight. The plant that controls the system is very possessive of all parts, including the antenna. She thinks it’s part of her cute personality, and she’s not going to let it snap off. 

Avon growls, hovering in place as she reels back her trident and throws it. The weapon whistles through the thin air, so fast that Missie’s clumsy vessel doesn’t have a chance to dodge. The prongs bury into Missie’s head, intertwining with the wires and plastic of the television. Cracking the fragile skull of the dead body that makes up most of Missie’s corpse. 

But none of that stops Missie. She’s not like most- her weakness isn’t her skull. Hell, she could lose the brain and tv completely, and she’d still be fine. She needed them to gain sentience, but now she’s a free walking, talking plant. 

She shrugs off the blow, wires sparking and bone shattering as the trident returns to it’s master. Avon grimaces at the disgusting, putrid gore left on her trident, of a partially decayed corpse controlled by a plant. 

Missie turns, limping to the side and stumbling left, righting herself before she goes tumbling off the island into the void below. A roar bounces off the endstone and obsidian towers. Missie doesn’t look back, or even up, when Jeane passes over her. The black bodied dragon lands in between Missie and the portal out, wings opening like curtains. 

Avon stands atop of the giant monster’s head, and points her trident down at Missie. Low, growling words in an ancient draconic tongue spill from her lips. Missie backs up, terror visible by the racing dark colored static. Backs straight into an obsidian tower, looming above her and scraping against the stars. 

The muzzle of the dragon looms mere centimeters from her, smoky breath hot against her cold, dead body. Sharp teeth part, revealing the roiling purple flame growing at the back of the dragon’s throat. Tongues lolling between the ivory needles, fire growing. 

There is no escape from the blaze, purple engulfing Missie and turning her to ash and melted plastic. The fire consumes her vessel, her head, and the plant in control of it all. At least it’s not as painful- at least the corpse she inhabits has lost most of it’s nerve endings.


	28. Hit Jamie.......2!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i admit i'm not sure if i like this, idk i'm sorry if it's no good. I saw that furby guillotine, and Jamie is dressed in revolutionary attire, so writing go brrr. 
> 
> cw: potential execution? 
> 
> I'll let you decide if Avon helped or hurt.

The low toll of the bell at the pinnacle of the tower hangs as low as the morning fog. There’s a quiet, low roar of people in the crowd. Whispering and looking at one another. Visible for everyone to see was the massive, angled blade. Freshly sharpened, glinting the foggy morning light. The entire square was the same grey, the same lighting. Every face in the crowd was also grey. Fifty something demised souls, hungry for death. 

And what better, what easier way to get their taste of blood than a public execution? The crowd hears the swearing, the snarls and grunts before the doors open. Three guards can hardly keep a hold of Jamie, even with his hands bound in rope before him. 

The lieutenant of Team Furby fought tooth and nail- literally- all the way up to the gallows. He kicks and digs his sharp little gremlin teeth into a guard’s arm, reeling. With a second of freedom, Jamie turns and scratches the other guard, whipping his tail and hissing, ears tucked back. Feral. 

His momentary rebellion is stifled, but it doesn’t back him down from the war. He won’t go quietly, won’t be taken from life without a fight. The cold, grey hands that grip onto him, the quiet hunger of the demised for the feeling of warmblood, the resignation and acceptance of death. He doesn’t want to go out with a whimper, upon a stage or in some dreary town square. If he’s going to go, he wants to go out in a bang, like a cannon firing across a field, in a blaze. 

He stands tall, chin raised in defiance. Or as tall as a three foot gremlin can be. One of the guards attempts to take Jamie’s tricorn, but Jamie flicks both his ears and his tail to ward away the intruding hand. “The hat stays.” 

While Jamie’s distracted, the other two guards force him to kneel at the chalk line, drawn so they know where the blade falls. Snapping like a cornered animal, he draws blood just once more, one more chance to be the feral creature he is. The red drop of blood falls to the pale wood at his knees, deep red the only color within the deadquarters square. 

No, not the only color. At the back of the crowd, a flutter of purple catches his eyes. Hidden amongst the dead, Avon watches Jamie. Once shock fades, he opens his mouth to shout, to yell that another warmblood is among them. To kill her instead, but Avon raises a single finger to silence him. Coy eyes and a devious smile, and in Avon’s other hand, a piece of chalk. 

Jamie looks up, craning his neck to see the swinging blade above him. The bloodthirsty blade looks just a bit out of line with it’s target. Jamie looks back into the crowd, but the color has disappeared. He’s alone, the soul beating heart among the demised. Color and life still flows in his veins. 

“Goodbye, warmblood. We welcome you to our ranks.” The executioner hums over the low drum of a single snare, voice and beat monotone. Jamie raises his head, ears drawn forward and blue eyes piercing into the crowd of the dead. He takes a deep breath, the gold trim and brass buttons of his coat rising and falling with his chest. He swallows his fear, drawing back his shoulders. He makes sure every last member of the dead team remembers Jamie for the feral leader he is. 

The flick of a lever, and Jamie hears the sound of rope racing through pulleys, the quiet slice of air being cut by a blade. He tastes blood on his teeth, but he knows it not to be his own. 

The world goes dark. A sharp intake of breath. 

Then the sound of metal meeting wood.

(644 words)


	29. Defense Randa 2!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Shbloop just wanted some materials for a cool new build, but Avon doesn't like poeple stealing from her home.

Shbloop thought it was quite good at building. In fact, it was. It built the body that it wanders the world in, it built a home in the overworld. And now, it’s building a quite precarious bridge from the obsidian platform to the end island. Shbloop isn’t here to fight the ender dragon, and luckily because it’s just another mob, the ender dragon doesn’t attack it. 

No, Shbloop is here for material. Endstone, purpur, end rods. It’s here for a material raid, not to kill a dragon or whatever. Shbloop wants to build something cool and new with all these materials, something that will wow even Shbloop. 

Shbloop is so focused on getting to the island, it doesn’t notice that someone else was already after it. Not until it notices the weak shadow pass over it, and Shbloop is sent flying into the endstone, cracking the wooden arms of it’s mechanical body. Shbloop turns, witnessing a trident lodge itself directly into Shbloops chest. It doesn’t really do anything, since it’s just it’s body, but Shbloop knows it’s in for a fight now. And Shbloop isn’t good at fighting. 

So it runs. It runs away from the dragonheart chasing after it, wondering why she’s even attacking it in the first place. Does she know it intends to collect things, steal from the End? Surely Shbloop isn’t the only person to attempt a material gathering in the End, and Avon likely knows who is here to cause trouble and who isn’t. 

Shbloop trips over it’s wobbly wooden legs, turning over just in time to block an attack from Avon’s trident. So focused on not getting stabbed, Shbloop doesn’t notice how it teeters at the edge of the island and the void. Nor does it notice Avon’s foot, shoving it over the edge. Not until it’s too late. 

Shbloop is falling, watching as the endstone island and obsidian towers disappear as it falls into the void. All that material gone to waste, all Shbloop wanted was to build something new and cool. But it should have known not to steal from a dragon. 

(350 words)


	30. Hit Nez

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double the Trouble from Ender Enders, we're the team rocket of demise now XD
> 
> cw: NOT stabbing, just puncturing

Moth peers up at the floating city, it’s branching buildings and arching walkways. Pale red eyes blink, searching for the mast of the end ship, before she takes a bite of the purple fruit in her hand. As soon as her teeth pop the soft flesh, she pops into a different place. Not quite where she wanted, pressed against the thin lips of the purpur brick, but she doesn’t complain. She sneaks along the yellow and purple building, finding safety and respite on the bridge between buildings. 

An angry snarl warns Moth to duck into a building, and seconds later she feels her long braids lose their weight, followed soon after by her body. The effects of the shulker’s bullet lifts Moth off her feet, soles of her shoes leaving the ground. Moth reaches up, grabbing hold of an end rod, guiding her levitation along, higher and higher into the expanding building. The bright sticks of light are without heat, despite emitting energy and sparkling light into the dark void. 

The lingering effects of the bullet wear off, and Moth carefully balances her weight on a rod, a small, gentle smile creasing her face. Through purple stained glass, she can see the hull of the end ship. Waiting, listing in the void, sail long lost in the realm of lost things. For a minute she wonders how these cities, these boats ended up here. Were they lost, lost to even time themselves and ended up here? 

Moth doesn’t dwell on her curious questions for long, busting through the glass and earning herself a few more scratches and wounds. Among all the other bandaids that dot her skin, these will be nothing. She balances carefully across the broken bridge, standing at the end in between the city and the boat. Void is all that lays between her and the treasure within the hull of the boat. She knows she should be nervous about hovering over certain death, but she just yawns as she gazes down. Waiting. 

Waiting for the shulker sentinels on the boat’s stern to notice her, waiting for their wisping projectiles to embed into her body, like burrs against her socks. Waiting for her feet to leave the purpur floors and slowly float her way over the deck of the ship. She lands on her feet with a soft thud, tossing a lock of white hair over her shoulder. Silent, quiet, she descends into the bowels of the ship. Her eyes come to rest on a pair of beautiful elytran wings.

In between two very bemused faces.

Exnoh leans against the hull of the ship, turning their head to face Moth. The corners of her eyes crinkle, amber eyes bright with excitement. Even though Moth can’t see Exnoh’s mouth beneath his mask, she can tell the enderman hybrid is quite pleased with Moth’s surprised expression. Their arms are crossed, blue overcoat trailing along an angled foot on the wall. 

Avon’s sitting atop a shulker box, legs crossed with arms braced against the edge of the shell, head tipped to the side and observing Moth with a passive smile. Her wings ruffle in the stuffy hull, trident poking out from it’s sheath in between her wings. Moth is pinned by the dragonheart’s sharp gaze. 

“Oh, hi you two. Wasn’t expecting anyone else to be End raiding today.” She steps closer, reaching between the two in an attempt to grab the elytra. “You two are welcome to keep the rest of the treasure, I’m just here for the elytra. You don’t even need it Av-” He voice goes quiet when Exnoh’s cold purple hand grabs her by the wrist.

“No, I think it’s time to put an end to your end raid, Moth.” Exnoh states. They pull out their sword, flourishing it. Moth glances behind her, then bolts, up the stairs and into the open air of the ship. She hears Exnoh and Avon give chase, swearing for a second as they run into one another in an attempt to both make it up the thin staircase. 

Moth pulls her sword free, turning back. There’s only Exnoh on the deck, Avon half flying, half floating above the ground. Moth needs to run, Moth needs to get out of here, she can’t take on the two Ender Enders. Moth isn’t sure if anyone can. 

She throws herself off the side of the ship, and a second later a shulker shoots her. She’s able to control her floating, back to the End city. Moth jumps down the end rods, back to the rough terrain of the endstone. Breaking through the glass, she just barely blocks Exnoh’s netherite sword from cutting her down. 

Exnoh says nothing, shoving Moth in a match of strength. Moth places her other hand on the flat blade, begging for the diamond to hold up to the stress put on it. Moth grits her teeth and pushes back, so focused on Exnoh she doesn’t think of the other half of the team, floating in the distance

Not until the trident lodges into her chest, puncturing her lungs and filling each breath with the taste of blood. The trident tears out, leaving a bloody mess behind. Moth’s diamond sword falls away, but Exnoh doesn’t go in for the kill. They don’t have to, the fluttering little moth is already dead.

(889 words)


	31. Hit Welp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do not read until this is posted in chat.
> 
> Also do not hide under trees during storms. 
> 
> Cw: electrocution

Welp hated the rain. It feels like it either never rained in this world, or rained for days on end. Like it is now. Welp was waterproof, mostly, but they hate the feeling of the moisture in between their metal, dripping down their wires, clogging up their fans. 

But here, when it rains, it pours. Welp's antennae droop like heavy leaves, droplets of water falling like tears and puddling on the ground. To make matters worse, this wasn't just a rain. Thunder rolls, and in the distance Welp watches lightning strike a tree. The leaves catch fire, before the downfall puts it out. Just more for Welp to have to deal with. Welp was like a lightning rod. Tall, metal, out in the open. 

So Welp stays in the safety under a tree, watching the rain roll across the swamp. Lily pads dance and dip in the water, filling up with rain and sinking. Welp definitely doesn't want to drown like that. Welp witness a poor unfortunate pig get struck by lightning, turning into a monstrous zombie pigging. Welp isn't even sure what would happen if they were struck by lightning. But it wouldn't be good. 

Water runs down the screen of Welp's face, like tears across the robot's cheeks. But robots don't cry, at least not like fleshy humans, so they watch the droplets slide down the glass, amusing themself by betting on which drop of water will win the race to their chin. 

Welp leaps at the sound of thunder, a clap so harsh and loud it rattles the leaves and their nerves. The oak they take shelter under dumps the rainwater, thoroughly soaking Welp. They can feel it clogging the system, messing with the redstone. They know they'll struggle to compute their environment now. The only comparable way to put it in human terms is Welp feels sick. Slow, stuffed up, a headache, and chills. 

It will take days to dry off, unless Welp finds a desert. But then there'll be sand in their system instead! Welp groans, leaning back against the oak tree. Humans always say how great it must be to be a robot, but honestly? Its a lot of matienance. Keep out the water, keep out the sand, don't get busted up. Parts break down and need fixed. They don't have a fancy immune system to get rid of viruses or heal broken wires. 

But Welp is Welp, and Welp likes being Welp. They like their retractable arms, buglike wings, the hits they can take when humans would be dead. Guess everything has its pros and cons in life. 

Welp is so caught up in their thoughts, they don't notice that the storm has gotten closer, lightning striking all around. And despite Welp's vast knowledge inside their computer brain, they failed to remember- never seek shelter under a tree.

Lightning arcs through the sky, searching every direction in tendrils of energy for the ground. The instant one trail discovers the earth, the bolt sears through the path, 300 million volts coursing down the tree that Welp hides under. 

Wood splinters and sap burns, shocks of electricity jumping from the poor conductivity of wood to the superconductivity metal. Welp can only think of one word, "Welp", as the electricity fries they're system. The water steams and boils, sensitive mainboards fry and fail, and plastic melts. 

The lightning makes ots way into the earth, energizing the ground and stimulating new life. But in its wake, it leaves behind a dead tree, and what may have never been alive in the first place. They are a robot. 

(600 words)


	32. Hit Jamie 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> im sorry if i'm getting annoying at this point, tell me to stop and I will. Your sona is just really fun to write. Even if/when either of us die, expect me to keep getting prompt ideas from the revolutionary gremlin
> 
> cw: endermites

“Alright, sit down all of you fools. I don’t care if you’re dead or alive, we have important information to discuss.” Lucky looks at the mix of people. Some still warm and alive, blood pumping through their warm veins, others as cold as him, hungry for that warmth. Nothing is warmer than fresh blood splattered across the ground. 

Beside Lucky, Jamie pounces onto the table, claws grasping the map and nearly ripping it. His ears are pressed back as he hunts the bug, his tricorn hat askew atop his hair. Ren gags and spits out blue fur, sneezing with every brush of Jamie’s tail in his face. Jamie feels the entire team’s eyes on him, and he crawls back into his chair beside Lucky. He has to be a good lieutenant. As feral as he can be in battle, that’s not quite so welcome in the war tent. 

Once Jamie has slunk back to his seat, Lucky continues. “As we all know, the other teams have become well versed in their defenses. As the King of the dead, and knowing all of you- even still alive, are bloodthirsty as well, I believe we should consider our options to go on the offensive. As long as a Furby remains standing by the end of this game, I call it a win.” Jamie watches Lucky saunter around the map, running his fingers across the living’s necks. Jamie shivers as the feeling of dead, icey fingers crest his neck. “Jamie here has been more than just a lieutenant- he’s taken the lead in a number of mass attacks.” 

Jamie stands, brushing the white of his coat, adjusting his sleeves and hat. A soft breeze plays with the white fabric of the tent, revealing a menagerie of weapons perched just outside. Some are bloodied, the colorful ochres drying against the jaded metals. Despite the misty grey moors of the world beyond, the white tent makes it almost feel like a warm spring day. Like they’re just camping, not three weeks into a bloody game of death and violence. 

He looks at the bodies, warm and cold, before him. Sure, they’re all on Team Furby. But they have other allegiances. So does he. He’s proud of his claim as a Well Dressed Mess and a protector of one flowery gal, but that also puts him in line to be backstabbed by even his own teammates. Pogcells, Arsons, even the NHO also has their colors represented in this strange group of people. Beyond that, the dead have no allegiance. Their only creed is to bring as many down with them. Hell, the king of the dead, master of the curse of demise, is standing right beside him. Jamie’s flirting with death every time he interacts with each and every one of them. But such is the game he plays. 

“Despite our best attempts, Welp remains among the living. I’m sorry I failed in that contract, but I’m sure we’ll get them some time. There’s only so long a robot can go without recharging their battery.” Jamie exposes a toothy grin, plucking a totem that rests on the map before them, shifting Welp’s position in the world. Where they’re hiding for now, to nurse their wounds. “WIllow and the other Limps have also evaded us for quite some time. Perhaps we should seek a mass attack. Speaking of mass attacks, there’s still nothing from Sphor.” 

“That’s getting quite worrying.” Ren whispers. It’s been so long, Jamie almost forgot about that fiasco. 

“At least we are prepared for whatever they bring.” Lucky waves it aside. He looks at Jamie, who’s gotten distracted by that very same bug again. With a snap of his fingers, He brings Jamie back to the meeting at hand. “Anything more?” 

“Oh! Yeah, I’ve noticed that the Ender Enders have become quite prolific, especially in coordinated attacks. While they’re only two people, they’re still a force to be reckoned with.” Not to mention Jamie seems to have drawn the ire and attention of one of them. 

“They’ve only made one kill.” Lucky hums, remembering when Kenjo joined their ranks. “But Jamie is right, we should keep an eye on them. Those double attacks are well planned.” 

Jamie sits down, taking a deep breath of relief. He doesn’t have to be all professional and leaderly now. Which is good, because that bug is back. Jamie knows he’s better than chasing a bug, but the endermite just keeps appearing and disappearing. Moving the map and knocking over the statues of enemies. 

More than that, the endermite means that something End related has been nearby. Of course, it could be someone’s enderpearl luring the bug in, an escape attempt from death or simply out of the picture. Or it could be the very team that Jamie just warned about. 

Jamie coils up, shoulders rolling and ears flat, eyes wide as he watches the mite on the table. He’s not sure what makes him decide to leap, what movement the bug makes or what part of his mind just screams “NOW”, but one second he’s in his chair, the next he’s scrabbling over the map, claws leaving punctures in trees and rivers, tail nearly whipping Ren to death. With a snarl, Jamie bites down on the endermite before it can teleport, fangs digging in and killing the critter. 

Spitting the bug in his hand, Jamie rolls back into his seat, crouching like the gremlin he is with his prize. But at this point, none of the other Furbys care. Lucky sighs, shaking his head in his hands before righting the fallen statues and with the help of Ren, Helix, and Yami they pull the map back out to smooth. Whether or not Jamie actually eats the bug is up for debate, but he remains happily perched in his chair with his prize. 

(974 words)


	33. Defense Quasar (For Exnoh)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't you go hitting the other half of team rocket, you'll better prepare for trouble!

Exnoh wakes up to the sound of rustling and fluttering. She turns over, growling as she forces her eyes open. Avon does this sometimes. When she's out of bonemeal she'll dig through their chests in search of fertilizer for her garden. 

"Avon please its 3 am, can't you-" Exnoh isn't looking at Avon. No, while Avon's wings are black as night, like the void beneath the islands, these are an ethereal white, much fluffier, and corrugated. 

Quasar ducks as a knife hurdles from Exnoh’s hand, appearing out from under his pillow. Do they really sleep with a knife? "Hey you're out of slime balls."

"Get out!" Exnoh shouts, standing up and grabbing her sword from the nightstand. Netherite points directly at Quasar's fluffy neck, and they realize that maybe sneaking into an Ender Enders base in the middle of demise was a horrible idea. Maybe they shouldn't have come to the end. And they just made Exnoh very, very mad. 

Quasar glances to the side, then with a terrified yelp throws themselves out the window. They open their wings, struggling to fly in the thin void. They can see safety, just beyond a copse of chorus trees, the portal beaming purple light like a beacon. Quasar's black eyes train on the light, their moth like tendencies leading them in the direction of lamp.

An arrow runs flush against Quasar's back, ripping their shirt and leaving a trail of blood. Damn, this trip really was a bust. They didn't even get any slime balls. They could have crafted a slime block, saving them the pain of the fall. 

Instead, they get an arrow to the wing, then to the back. Falling from grace, Quasar's death is little more than a squished bug at the base the the End city. Not even a slimeball to prove for it.

(306 words)


	34. Defense Quasar (For Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So im hyperfixating on Wolfwalkers, so you get my hyperfixation writing. My apologies. 
> 
> Cw: animal attack

Quasar ran, the howling growing closer despite their attempts to flee the pack. Down through the mossy wood, oak trees looming so far above they lose sight to their crowns. While they’re too busy looking up, Quasar trips over a knotted root, and goes tumbling head over heels down into a grassy gully. 

Shaking their head and picking clumps of grass and dirt from their antenna and white fuzz. Quasar needs to fly. They’re faster in flight, wings beating with every little jointed blade. The trees are tall enough, even if Quasar can’t reach the night sky. 

They stand up, and get a running start. Ignoring the howls and barks that are growing nearer and nearer. They don’t even know where these wolves came from, but they know that they’re after them. Did they hit one by accident? They thought wolves were neutral unless attacked!

The dark forest becomes flush with light, right as Quasar takes off. The bright illumination blinds their black eyes, and if it wasn’t surrounding them they’d be drawn to the light. But instead it forces them to crash back into the moss and detritus, dizzy and unsure what is happening. Spirals and knots and patterns dance in the bark of the oak groves, stories being told without words, history being taught without voice. It was magical, and it enraptured Quasar. 

So much so, they forgot about the pack of wolves. At least, until one of the canines bites down on their wing, shaking them left and right. Another wolf pounces on their chest, pinning them down. The rest of the pack circles, howling and yipping. “Wha-what’s going on?” 

“Mess with the wolf, you get the teeth.” Avon appears, hovering over Quasar. Her hair is wild, but her eyes are sharp and feral. “You shouldn’t have tried to hurt the balance of nature, Quasar. And this pack has been hungry since you blew up their favorite hunting grounds with your trap.” 

“But- But I thought you only dealt in dragons!” Quasar stumbles for their words, yelping as another wolf bites their foot, tearing off their slippers. 

“Today I’m a wolfwalker.” Avon’s eyes turn a shining amber color as the wolves, and a scream is cut off by howling and yipping. 

(374 words)


	35. Defense Void again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I alway wondered what a really trident vs trident fight would look like 
> 
> cw: gore

The two tridents lock together, metal screeching and prongs bending as the two combatants push and pull in an attempt to yank out the other’s. Void reels back, hooking the tips of their trident with Avon’s and trying to pull it free. But Avon, with her gloves and tenacity, refuses to let go. Instead, she lets herself be dragged forward. 

Void unhooks the two weapons, twirling their own and raising it above their head to stab Avon on the ground. She rolls away a mere breath before metal meets her throat, scrambling to her feet and throwing her trident. 

The weapon completely misses, causing a laugh to bubble up from Void’s cold, dead body. “I thought you were good a pvp, dragonheart. You missed by a mile!” They march forward, following after Avon with a dead set intention on killing them. That burst of laughter was the first bit of warmth their body has felt since their demise. But it’s fleeting, no long enough. Void wants more, and Void knows an easier, much longer lasting way to feel warmth. Bathed in the blood of a fresh kill, doused in warm ochre from a beating heart. And they’re frenzied by the one before them. “It’s over, Avon. You’re weaponless.” 

“Am I?” Avon stops, raising an eyebrow. A hand appears from under her cloak, reaching out to thin air. “Loyalty always wins out, Void.” 

They realize what’s happening a moment too late. Turning around, the enchanted trident makes it’s hasty return to it’s rightful owner, rising from the dirt it planted in and speeding through the air. It cuts right through Void, tearing them apart through the chest. Their own trident clatters to the ground, black ooze pouring out from the open wound. 

Avon kicks Void’s trident away as she leaves, letting them die alone. “I have important business to take care of.”

(311 words)


	36. Hit Welp 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You survived the last one... but how about some lava to cool you off? 
> 
> cw: falling in lava

First rain, now heat. Welp just can’t get a break. They flee through the Nether, gangly legs bounding across the red netherrack, claws digging into the clayey soil, propelling them forward. Nylium grass comes and goes, sometimes red and sometimes blue. They whip around trees and under ancient skeletons, trying desperately to lose the dragonheart close on their heels. Welp could turn and fight, but they’re low on energy. It takes more energy to fight than to run. Welp needs to get home, recharge.

Welp never should’ve gone looking for the End. It was far, they had a third of their energy drained just walking to the stronghold. And for what? Welp entered to get shulker boxes, ender pearls, end rods. But instead, they’re being chased through the nether by a dragon. 

“Get back here!” Avon shouts, weaving through the massive ebony ribs, catching up to Welp as they struggle through the soulsand. The material sticks to their metallic legs, wisping and clinging for dear life. Trying to siphon the life from their robot form. With each drag of their wirey limbs, the sand quietly screams and wails. Welp would take the time to wonder why soulsand exists, how it’s made. If they weren’t on the run. 

Welp leaps aside, metal scraping against metal as a trident flies by. The loyal weapon turns around midair, snapping off an antenna. Welp stumbles, struggling even more now. With one antenna lost, they’re half blinded in all senses. Weaker vision, weaker hearing, weaker Welp. 

But what Welp can sense is that they’re running out of rack. They can see the glow of lava lakes, cliffs hanging and dipping into the tomato soup coloured rock liquid. They can sense the heat growing hotter, threatening to melt their metal, ruin their wires, break their processors. Every part of Welp is telling them to turn back, that they’re going beyond their limits. 

They can’t turn back. No matter where they go, only death follows. Turn, and be ripped apart by a dragon. Forward, and be melted. 

There is, however, a third option. One that Welp bets Avon doesn’t realize. They run at full tilt towards the cliff, leaping off once they run out of netherrack, feet pushing off like a frog jumping. 

And wings open, neon yellow plastic scooping up the hot air and giving Welp the lift to soar over the lava. They hear Avon swearing behind them, followed by furious wingbeats. The tables have turned for Welp. 

Welp turns over, so that they’re facing Avon, and extend their arms in the distance between chased and chaser. They grab hold of the black membrane, smooth but scaley at the bones, and wraps them in a vice grip. Pinning Avon’s wings to her back. 

Avon drops like a rock, towards the lava. Welp lets go when the heat gets too hot, and turns back over. Waiting to hear the sound of a body falling in lava, the burning and screaming. 

They never come. Welp looks over their shoulder, searching for the sight of a burning human- though this one isn’t quite human- organic form dissolving in the magma. But the lava is still and quiet, glowing bright in it’s ever shifting orange and yellow. 

Welp doesn’t sense the attack from below, not when they’re focused on behind, and missing half of their sensory system. A trident shears through the yellow wings, followed by Avon’s muscular form checking Welp in midair. Sending them spiraling, only one wing desperately trying to keep them aloft. 

Spiraling towards the lava, all of Welp’s systems are sending alerts. Warning of overheating, malfunctioning, just about everything wrong. Broken antenna, broken wing, exposed wires, melting fans. It fills Welp’s processing unit, blinding them to even attempt to escape the boiling death below. 

Metal is part of the earth, and returns to the earth once more, melted to it’s core components.

(647 words)


	37. Defense Con

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I almost put this in LoL by accident, oop! 
> 
> Anyways, the nether and the end always remind me of opposites, like the sun and the moon, red and blue, etc. Avon's not too fond of the Nether

There are three things that fire needs, and Con can recite them in their sleep. A fire needs a spark, fuel, and oxygen to burn. Con knows just about every way to make that spark, with just about any and everything they can find. Netherrack is great fuel for fire, and they always carry it on their person. 

But here in the End, in the void where the air is thin, even the flames struggle to breathe as they’re set alight on a patch of potatoes. Which makes it even harder for Con. They’re used to the thick, hot air of the nether, everything is pressurized, smaller. 

The End is completely different. It’s infinite, empty, cold. They don’t know how anything, or anyone, can stand to live here. But the garden they’re burning at this moment proves otherwise. If only the fire would stay lit, before puttering out into a weak dance of smoke and half burnt potato sprouts. 

The sound of a trident digging into the ground before them alarms Con, and they jump away, gripping their striker and searching the endless sky for who threw the wobbling weapon. It retreats, enchantment glowing as it returns to it’s master, and Con peers through the dark. Another thing different about the End and the Nether- it’s so dark. People in bright places cannot see dark things. 

Not until the black form is hurtling towards Con like a ghast projectile, the metal the color of soulflame and glittering like shining blue embers. Blue meets red as the prongs of the trident dig deep, all the way through Con’s body and out the other side. Flames of blood dance from the wounds, but unlike blood, they’re affected by gravity and travel downwards. 

Con looks up, finally able to meet the eyes of their opponent. They weakly attempt to grasp their bat, but fingers won’t move as their body begins to putter and die out. Struggling to breathe, unable to catch the thin air, only for it to get lost in punctured lungs. 

One little spark, one ember that dances into the sky, before it reaches too far into the void and loses it’s fuel.

(364 words)


	38. Defense Fluid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love love love the art, thank you so much it's an honor to get something like that from such a well respected author as Fluid!

They run, rounding the corner and pressing their back against the obsidian tower, closing their eyes and pressing the plating of their armor firm against the hard stone. The green plasteel material digs into their back, unused to being pushed around. But Fluid is tucked against the obsidian tower for good reason, 

Because purple flame bursts around them, searing hot enough to melt the rough endstone and for Fluid to feel it even through their armor. The purple color dances across their visor, and as the fire erupts from the ivory teeth that cage the maw of the Ender Dragon, a low roar reminds Fluid why they shouldn’t be here in the first place.

The End has it’s protector, Jeane. And Jeane has her protector, Avon. But with Fluid’s scientific genius, they were able to corrupt the thoughts of the ender dragon and turn her on her own friend. Except now the Ender dragon is still pissed, and with Avon out of the way, Fluid looks like a delightfully crunchy meal. 

They just have to get to the portal out. As soon as the flames die back, Fluid skitters across the rock to the next tower. They always keep the indestructible spires between them and the dragon, scooting around as Jeane flies above in an attempt to gain on them. 

But the worst is yet to come. The flat plain between Fluid and the portal to freedom, with no place to hide and large enough for the dragon to easily swoop in. They watch the graceful turn of the wings, circling like a vulture in the endless sky. At the aphelion of the orbiting beast, Fluid takes their chance, and runs. 

They don’t look back, they don’t think of anything except the bedrock before them, feet pounding across the yellow stone, vision tunneled to the infinite grid trapped within the walls. So focused on their escape, they don’t hear the swoop of wings, don’t feel the buffet of the thin air. At least, not until it’s too late, and Fluid is being dragged off the ground by their foot. 

Fluid turns, grabbing their weapon and swinging it helplessly in the face of the ender dragon, kicking their feet against the teeth that grip and grind on their ankle. But it’s to no avail, the frenzied dragon hungers for food. 

And not even the exoskeleton of this spider stops it from feasting. 

(401 words)


	39. Defense Drago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this isn't very good, but i love how cute the art is so I wanted to keep it going. As much as I love angst and pain, this is adorable

Drago doesn’t typically take the time to think about things as little as flowers or leaves. She’s so big, and they’re so small, they burn so easy and crumble in her claws, she’s never had the ability to ponder the little things in life. 

But Avon has hands, and can speak the draconian language that comes so naturally to both of them. They should be killing one another, dead and alive, Monster Mafia and Ender Enders. But in all this bloodshed and war, a little bit of peace in the grass was welcome. And Drago finally had the ability to see the fragile petals for their beauty, the little flowers so hardy and strong. Even the littlest plants can be as strong as a dragon, when it comes to their survival. And they’re so bright, so vivid. Reds and yellows, purples and blues. They grew anywhere they wanted, just like Drago could fly anywhere she wanted. 

And as she watched Avon’s fingers weave the crown of flora, deft knots that make patterns in the green and adorned with the blue and red petals, Drago can’t believe something so small can be woven into an ornament big enough even for a dragon’s head. But Avon stands, clambering up Drago’s scales with knowledgeable ease- she knows how to get around a dragon- and places the flower crown on Drago’s head. 

Drago tips her head to look into a pond, blinking green eyes as she sees her reflection. The grey scales, devoid of life and lost to the world of the living, the only color she retained was the green glowing spots on her flank. She was just grey, black, and green. Until now.

A smile cracks across the dragon’s lips, glimmering, bloodstained teeth sparkling in the sunlight that they can’t feel. It wasn’t much, but it was a little bit of color brought back to them. And even the little things mean so much. She guesses she’ll let Avon live...for now.

(330 words)


	40. Defense Sap (For Exnoh)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YES I'm awake I was taking a shower. It's really hard to make up something about your sona but it was really fun, humourous break!

Crocs had many uses, and Sap knew every last one of them. First off, they floated in the water, so whenever they lost them in the swamp or at the beach, they were easy to retrieve. Crocs also had great breatheability, every step fresh as walking barefoot. And they were quite durable! Flip the strap to the front for a sleek, clog look. Or Sap could turn the strap into sport mode and really get kicking with things. 

The one thing Sap didn’t count on was the terrain of the End, and how it would affect their beloved shoes. The rough, craggy stone rips at the rubber and even tears into their feet, and the tail of their hoodie is in little better shape. 

They can’t believe there’s a flaw to their flawless footwear! They never could have guessed ground this sharp could exist, that the End would be so hostile for footkind. And even more hostile was the beast flying between obsidian towers, roaring and swooping low in an attempt to grap Sap. 

Sap would’ve thought that a dragon would be friendly towards it’s reptilian bretheren, but the ender dragon seems to have little care for whatever Sap is, all she knows is that it doesn’t belong here and needs to be gone. Sap stumbles to the ground, rolling across yellow endstone, cuts and scrapes all over their body and even worse- their crocs. This pair is ruined, and stars know how hard it is to find a Crocs store this day and age? 

At this point, Sap accepts death as the dragon bats them into the void. Life isn’t worth living without their precious lime green crocs. At least they get to die wearing their favorite pair of shoes, and in their favorite mode. Sporty, ready to rock and roll. All the way into the grasping void, torn apart atom by atom. Till not even a croc, a croc, or a Sap was left. 

(326 words)


	41. Defense Willow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't demise a fellow dragon. But us dragonkind gotta stick together, right? Have a little fun playing in the sky?

Willow’s wings opened in the sky, stretching out so far and wide she can feel bones crack with relief. There’s not many places Willow gets to spread her wings to their full length, but here in the End, where very little takes up the space on the ground, she feels freedom until what she finds in the overworld. 

“Watch this.” Avon thwaps Willow on head with her own wings, black as night compared to Willow’s crimson red membrane. The dragonheart wanders to the lip of the island, back heels teetering between the void and the ground. Avon takes another step back, and with a two fingered salute, falls backward into the darkness below. 

Willow runs to the side of the island, eyes wide and terrified. Did Avon just fall to her doom? Willow searches the empty space, heart pounding and palms sweating, until a black and purple blur rises past her, thin air fluttering her hair and ruffling her wings. Avon shoots from near death, teasing the line between being torn apart by the void and remaining whole. Once Avon is back in the safety of the air, she nods to will. “Betcha can’t beat my void jumping record.” 

The other dragonkind stands up, brushing the rock and sweat on her pants. “I dunno if I’m ready to flirt with that kind of death yet, but fancy a bit a slalom?” 

Willow joins Avon in the air her clawed feet slightly raised and her tail acting as a stabilizer. Before Avon can realize what Willow is going to do, she’s off, threading the needle thin line between obsidian towers, at the speed of an arrow, weaving between the spires. Sometimes she gets close enough that her scales scrape the indestructible material, or her hair tugs against the rough edges, but she expertly survives the agility course she’s made out of the lost island the two stand upon. 

At the other end of the course, she turns, bowing and sweeping a hand out for Avon. “If you can run that, I’ll try your void jumping. Sounds terrifying, but I’m in.” 

The two dragonkind smile, and race each other to the start.

(360 words)


	42. Jamie's Ultimate Demise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready for a grand finale, the show stopper, the story's climax, and 7310 words of one sona's demise? 
> 
> I sure am. Thank you Jamie for giving me this opportunity, this was so fun to write and I'm honored that you even wanted me involved in your planned demise. I didn't expect to get a rival or frenemy at the end of this- nor I expected to live long enough to be your doom!
> 
> So enjoy the ride, to your _demise_. 
> 
> Cw:burned alive

The deadquarters loom ominously at the top of the hill, the sprawling mansion of aged wood and battered glass lording over the valley below. It’s in a state somehow between decay and immaculate, the wood weathered and beaten, but not yet exposing it’s interior to the elements. The Demised Mansion is trapped in between life and death, just as the people inside are. Killed beyond revival, but not silent in the grave. 

Jamie shifts through the tall grass, avoiding the patches of withered flora, keeping his movements slow to stay unseen. Over a feral rose bush, the drag of thorns against his coat and scratching his skin reminds him of what waits just beyond those massive doors. Certain death, either at the hands of the cold corpses or their vicious traps. Jamie looks down, seeing a small welt of blood pucker on his hand. A frenzy awaits for him, hungry for his blood. 

The nerves begin to set in. Why is Jamie doing this? What kind of information is worth what could most certainly be his demise? He’s already weak, barely hanging onto life with a thread and his pure ferality to stay alive. He’s survived this long, can’t he be happy with it? 

No. 

Jamie isn’t happy with just surviving. He isn’t going to let just one life left deter him from being a soldier, being a leader. The risk is more than worth the reward, and if there’s anyone who will make it out alive, it’s Jamie. He steels himself to the fear, and barges through the grand entrance. 

At least, he tries to. But the oak doors, settled heavy on their hinges, refuse to budge. Not even the gaunt faces etched into metal knockers shift. Jamie throws his weight against the entryway again, but it’s really not a lot of weight to begin with. Still no movement. He grits his teeth and his feet, and plants his clawed hands against the weathered wood. With all his might, all his muscles, Jamie forces the doors to open. A shriek from the rusted metal matches with the low gasp of stale air breathing out from the portcullis. 

Jamie stumbles forward, tripping on the blood red rug and waving his hands like a bat in a desperate attempt to right himself. He can see the sallowed sag of the carpet, informing Jamie that no floor exists below it. Anything could be hidden beneath the fabric. He whips his tails out in the other direction, and finally, gratefully feels his center of mass move back to stable. 

For a second, Jamie doesn’t dare breathe for fear of toppling into the pit. He creeps to the edge of the entryway, claws digging into the wallpaper as he slips past the trap. Quite the welcome mat, he must say. 

The ceiling vaults, and the grand vestibule opens it’s arms wide and ups the creep level to an eleven. His eyes rove across marble statues, depicting the most gruesome deaths in every minute carved detail. In between the pillars of death, paints of demised souls hang, their eyes following Jamie. Hungry for his blood. 

“That’s not inconspicuous at all.” Jamie breathes, looking at the blades and nets of TNT hanging above him, tripwires stretched across the smooth tile floor, pressure places and sensors all around him. The entire entry hall is filled to the brim with traps. If he even set off one, the others would certainly blow up, burn, or bury his corpse. Anyone that fell for these was a goner, no matter their lives left. 

From the vestibule, Jamie has to choose his adventure. Which direction will likely lead him to the greatest amount of valuable information. Echoing through the halls, distant laughs and whispering chatter remind Jamie that he’s not alone. He’s in a den full of vipers, ready to strike. 

He can’t linger long. Jamie leaves it up to fate and spins around, deciding which way to go based on where his tail is pointing when he opens his eyes. Crossing the traps with practiced ease, not even an ear disturbing the delicate balance of death.

Through a grand doorway, Jamie finds himself in a wide hallway, brimming with items. Some are placed on pedestals, others hanging on the wall. Jamie wanders closer to a pair of wings pinned to the wall, before jumping back as fresh, red blood drips from the open wound. Holy shit, this is a fresh kill. 

He’s in a trophy room. Jamie counts out the victims, counts out the items stolen from them in their death. A skull of a skeleton, skin long gone to the elements. Bloodstained buttons carefully arranged on a marble mount. Even a mob style hat, crumpled and haphazardly set on a bust. So many dead, and all of these prizes. 

Jamie knows who these belong to, before he appears behind a statue. YanDan smiles, the red scar on his face the only color left on their dead body. “Welcome to my museum. 125 hits, I’m proud to have amassed such a collection. Of course, there’s a certain gremlin furby I want to add to the list.” 

Dan’s knife is flying through the air before Jamie can grab his blade, left with the only choice to flee. He rolls out of the way, hiding behind a monument to Dan’s 100th kill. The clang of a blade against marble, the cold breath of a demised body hovering over Jamie’s, and he jumps from his hiding spot. 

Jumps directly onto YanDan’s head, claws digging into their scalp and balancing on the mass murderer. He looks around, desperate to find an exit, some way to escape Dan’s endless thirst for blood. He spots a door at the end of the hall, half hidden by bloodied wings. He doesn’t hesitate, leaping from atop Dan and scurrying to the door. 

As fast as he opens it, he slams the door closed, breaking the ornate doorknob off. Jamie yelps, leaping back when a knife protrudes from the wood, and flees when Dan yells what he’ll do to Jamie. When he catches him. 

If he catches him. He hears the sound of a pufferfish inflating, and scurries onto a cabinet just in time as pistons pull the rug out from under him, revealing wither roses, their thorns laced with the deadly effect. Another trap waits for him in the walls as he surfs the furniture, honey sticking him to the wallpaper while a skeleton shoots. This corridor is a death trap. He needs to get out. 

Jamie enters the next door he runs across, the blood pumping in his ears deafening him to the dark, droning strokes of ivory and ebony keys. Even though Midas sees his new audience, he’s too far into the concerto to stop now. 

What does stop Midas, however, is when Jamie scrabbles across the open face of the grand piano. His claws snap against the strings, ruining Midas’s song and the soundboard. Midas slams their hand down on the keys, eyes burning with rage as Jamie flees back out into the grand vestibule. “You’ll pay, warmblood!” 

Other demised have noticed his intrusion, and are chasing after him. He leaps over the entryway of traps, luring their own makers into them. He can’t go anywhere with them on his tail, not without getting caught. He has to run, to leave. 

Jamie leaps over the pitfall trap, and slams the grand doorway closed behind him. Jumping into the tall grass, he lies flat beneath a bush. Listening with flat ears as the door opens again, voices pouring out with the bodies. Jamie holds his breath, and hopes he’s not too noticeable with the white of his uniform. Waiting as, one by one, members of the Dead team slink back into their mansion, and the door closes once more. 

They think they scared him off, but Jamie’s already scrabbling up the wood, climbing through a broken window into a bedroom. It’s sparse, but the bed is massive. He must be on the maintenance side of the floor, and this is one of the mansion’s keepers. His boot scuffles across a scale. He crouches down, picking it up. Neon green. 

Drago. Of course, Drago was one of the first demised, it only makes sense they became the keeper of the deadquarters. But that also means that Drago likely has just as much information, so long dead and crawling all throughout the home of the demised. Jamie pokes through every part of the room, even under the bed, in search for something, anything to make this trip useful. But all he finds is burn parchment, too far turned to ash to be legible. 

The first floor held nothing of value. Just traps and angry undead souls. Of course, that makes sense. Who would hide their secrets on the first level? Jamie creeps out of the keeper’s room, discovering the hallway before him to be untrapped. He still walks with care, but as he wanders the quiet wing, he realizes this must be a place meant only for the demised. A hidden quarters. Including some hidden stairs. With a cool, coy grin, Jamie ascends. 

He makes sure every step of his is silent, testing the creak of the wooden steps, stepping to edges when the material groans under his weight. The stairs spit him out in a quiet hallway, numerous doors on either side. He peeks into one room, his curiosity getting the better of him, and finds a bedroom. Or, at least the closest thing to a bedroom the dead can have. He feels more like he’s wandered into a crypt, cobwebs and bones and strange items that hardly denote who it is that has claimed this room. All of the rooms Jamie looks into are bedrooms of a sort, though some a little less inviting than that. 

If there was one place he’d surely find information on the dead team, their plots and schemes, it would be in their private quarters. It doesn’t seem as heavily trapped up here, but he’s not taking any chances. He scrambles over furniture in the hall, wallsurfing and avoiding the ground like it’s made of lava. Until he reaches a room that looks a little more well kept, at the end of the hall. No other doors stretch along this span of wall. Whoever’s room this is, they must be important. Important means in the know. 

With cheshire grin, Jamie picks the lock with his claws, and opens the door, centimeter by centimeter until he can see inside. Unfortunately for him, the estate room is occupied. Fortunately, the occupant is passed out, her monochrome heels dangling off the foot of the bed. Roxy is in a deep slumber, twice dead to the world. She knows she doesn’t need to sleep now that she’s dead, but saturated or not, she’s going to get her sleep dammit. 

Jamie knows he shouldn’t risk it. Sneaking into a room is one thing, sneaking into a occupied room is another. But sneaking into a Watcher’s bedroom while they’re in there? Jamie is insane to even play around with the idea, much less actually sneak in. 

So he sneaks in, keeping footsteps light, boots shuffling and making sure none of his clothes or tail moves too quickly, alarming Roxy. This room looks different from the others he peeked into. Perhaps she wanted it to be a bit more like the watcher’s tower, a bit cleaner and well kept. It’s the least bloodiest room he’s been in. Good for Roxy. 

Slinking across the floor, Jamie comes upon a nightstand at the foot of the bed. Sticking out of the haphazardly shut drawer are corners of papers and various parchments, folded over and threatening to bust open the wood. Jamie grabs the corner of one page, and pulls it out. The paper whispers across the wood and other leaflets, but the drawer remains closed. As soon as Jamie holds the paper in his grubby hands, his ice blue eyes skate across the words with furious hunger. 

It’s hard to piece together the notes, like he’s been dropped into the middle of a conversation, but he doesn’t need any sort of contect to know what redstone and TNT is for. The watchers must have trapped the land around the tower, even though they’re already all dead. A number of key attacks have occurred there. As many have died in the lawn of the Watcher’s tower. 

Jamie’s whet his palate for information, and now he wants more. More of what’s brimming, bursting from the nightstand. He wraps his fingers around the small handle, and yanks the desk open. Silence is broken by a rapid thrumming of a noteblock, as fast as a clock can go off, and loud enough to nearly scare the fur off this furby. Definitely loud enough to wake the sleeping watcher as well. 

Roxy stands upright, though she almost collapses again as she rolls her ankle. Half asleep, she stumbles to the open drawer and shoves it closed, wrinkling the papers even more. The noteblock stops its incessant chimes, dousing the room in silence once more. Grey sparkles dance in the low light of the room as Roxy turns slowly, searching for indescrepencies within her chamber. 

Jamie holds his breath, pressed in between the bedframe and the floor, watching as Roxy paces the room. With each step, her heels click and thrum down the wooden planks, like a heart beat. But Jamie’s is beating faster than her saunter, so loud he’s terrified she can hear him. Roxy could easily catch Jamie, if she had the will and energy to shift into her watcher form. 

Roxy’s heels stop at the bed, less than a meter between Jamie’s white overcoat and her puncturing pumps. This is it, this is Jamie’s demise. Hiding under a bed like the little gremlin he is, killed by the very being who created this curse they all share now. He closes his eyes, ears flopped in defeat. He hopes it will be a quick death. 

He winces at the sound of creaking, a low sigh. Another minute of silence, and Jamie dares to open his eyes. A soft putter of snoring. Jamie gasps for air, his heart leaping from his chest as he leaps from his hidey hole. If he wasn’t so little, he likely wouldn’t have fit. 

Jamie doesn’t linger, pouncing on silent feet and closing the door. “Sleep well, Roxy.” 

While the bedrooms were safe (apart from those that resided within them), the social areas were far from it. In the drawing room, with many a plush- though threadbare- couch, mismatched and rickety chairs, he dances from raining potions of harming and blindness, the effects swirling like a mist as he flees into the sewing room. 

Which isn’t much better. Spikes are dispensed from every angle, thin as needles but large as arrows. If he were any taller, he’d be skewered through his neck. Instead, a needle snatches his hat from him, burying the bicorne into the mahogany door he’s fleeing towards. He rips the felt free, securing it back on his head and slamming the door closed. 

“I was wondering what all that racket was about.” A snickering voice crosses the open Salon, in the center of the second floor. Jamie pants for breath, searching the shadowy hall for who was speaking. He knew it can’t be good, being in the Deadquarters, but when he lays his eyes on Void and Fedex, Fed’s glowing spear already in hand, he realizes he can’t just run or hide out of this one. 

He has to fight. Jamie grasps the handle of his iron blade, unleashing it from it’s sheath when Void launches their trident. Three harmonious chimes from three prongs against the sword, deflecting the hit with a coy smile. Fedex charges, aiming to skewer Jamie with their glowing lance. Even though their face was completely masked, Jamie cold feel the bloodthirst radiating off them. He rolls away from the charge, feeling blood spring from his upper arm, red blood blossoming on his coat, staining the white fabric in a way Jamie’s not sure he’ll ever get out.

The sight of warm, colorful blood sends the demised combatants into a frenzy, double teaming Jamie with a fury, a hunger for the warmth of his blood, spilled across their weapons and all over the salon floor. Jamie plays defensive, ducking out of a trident’s path and blocking a spear’s throw. Sometimes, in between the endless barrage from the undead duo, Jamie is able to get a hit or two in. He scrambles to gain ground, standing on rickety chairs, boots marring the old couches with his footprints. 

Void and Fedex are relentless. If it were a one v one, Jamie could possibly gain the upperhand. But against two, he has to be clever if he wants to get out of this alive. Jamie notices a chandelier on the ceiling, shades torn and half of the bulbs broken and burnt out. He pushes Fedex away, and leaps onto the swinging centerpiece. Scrabbling from one to another, Jamie’s able to hide among the crystals and shades from attacks. He even manages to steal Void’s trident, wrapping it up in twinkling crystals so it can’t return to it’s owners. 

Jamie’s pride gets the best of him. He can’t help it, he’s the gremlin he is. Swinging on the chandelier, he waves his tail like the tongue of a grandfather clock, daring Void to grab it. “Two of you can’t even beat a three foot tall squirrel? I thought the demised were supposed to be deadly, dangerous.” 

Void grabs hold of Jamie’s tail, yanking on it. Jamie slips, but scrabbles to keep hold of his perch above them. With a mighty flick of his tail, whiplash fast, he cracks the ender-slime hybrid in the head, sending Void sprawling. They don’t get back up. 

Fedex, on the other hand, wasn’t going to fall for the same trick. They wait until Jamie is crossing chandeliers, eyes glued on the door to freedom, and hurl their glowing spear. Knocking the soldier from his perch, tossed to the floor. 

Jamie grasps the aching shoulder. It was a blunt hit, leaving his bones aching and skin bruising, but not drawing blood. He grabs his sword in the nick of time, before Fedex can skewer Jamie into a furby-kebab. Shoving, pushing, Jamie grits his teeth and puts all his strength in to keep the piercing, glowing tip of the spear from his face. Fedex leans close, pressing their weight onto the weapon. The metal bites into Jamie’s skin, puncturing his cheek and digging deeper. “Just let it go, Jamie. It’ll be faster just to let me stab you through the eyes, and finally give in to the curse.” 

“Heh, I’m not about to give up that easy. If I’m going out, I’m going out fighting.” Jamie grunts, a cocked smile appearing on his face. His tail wraps around Fedex’s leg, the feathery tuft sticking out like a fan, and yanks the white haired corpse’s feet out from under them. At the same time, Jamie reels his legs back and kicks. Fedex crashes hard, hand still gripping their weapon like it’s their only lifeline. 

Jamie ignores the painful gash, deep and bleeding profusely from just beneath his eye. He doesn’t have time to consider the wound. While Void is knocked out and Fedex is seeing stars, Jamie runs. Through the twin doors, into an empty room, and across a hallway into a small chamber. He doesn’t look behind him to see if the two follow, or below his feet for traps. He doesn’t even think about breathing until the door is shut behind him and he’s alone in the dark room. 

He gasps for air, grasping his hat with one hand and his cheek with the other. When the latter pulls away, his fingers are covered in the red ochre. Droplets fall like tears, dripping onto his uniform and coming to rest on the black of his pants. 

Jamie needs to treat his wound. He peers into the dark room, trying to figure out where he’s found himself now. It doesn’t look to be a bedroom, though it’s quite cluttered with all sorts of things. Stacks of books, chests of all kinds of random supplies. Bottles of sand, a totem of undying, a rusted astrolabe set atop a red tablecloth. 

Perfect. Jamie grabs the fabric, using his teeth and claws to rip the cloth apart. At least the red of his wound is hardly noticeable among the dye. He presses the makeshift bandage on his cheek, soaking up blood, which Jamie explores the room. Waiting for his body to stop the bleeding. Or at least slow it. 

A fireplace sits on the right wall, empty of flame and bricks gone cold. A painting is haphazardly set upon the mantle, the face of someone Jamie doesn’t know staring, watching him. Jamie peers through the fireplace, and realizes it’s double sided. He can see another extravagant room on the other side, a bed big enough to fit at least five people, luxurious and less decrepit couches, an ornate desk. 

Jamie looks down, pulling the single page of notes Jamie stole from Roxy’s room. He needs more information, more to make this disastrous mission worthwhile. He looks around the curious room once more, noticing a seam in the bookshelves and taking mental note. Then, silent as the dead (though they’re quite loud in this Mansion), he slips out the door and back into the hall. Much more careful about setting off traps or alarms. 

The doors are left unlocked, White and gilded swinging open without struggle. No creaking, no rusted hinges. A perfect heist, to whoever owns this master bedroom. Jamie turns and closes the door, keeping the knob turned so it clicks effortlessly into place. 

He takes a deep, exhausted sigh, glad to be alone. 

“Hello Jamie.” Turns out he’s not alone. Jamie spins around to find the owner of the voice, and locks eyes with Lucky. King of the dead, sitting in an opulent chair. Legs crossed, the overarching foot bounces up and down in a nonchalant pattern. A slate grey face rests on pale, monochrome hands, stormcloud eyes pinning Jamie to the wall. “I was wondering when your curiosity would get the better of you.” 

“Lucky! Thank goodness it’s you.” Jamie’s voice raises a few octaves, before clambering back to a squeakier normal. He rolls from toes to heels, eyes darting everywhere but the King. “I’m so glad to see another Furby here. You won’t hurt me… right?”

Silence fills the void between the two. Between living and dead, king and soldier. After what felt like an eternal second, a low chuckle rumbles from Lucky’s throat. He attempts to cover his chortle with his hand, but it’s already done it’s job in thoroughly terrifying Jamie. “You were a good Lieutenant, Jamie. But my loyalties like first with the dead.” 

He snaps his fingers, and every candle and light in the room extinguishes. Pistons, hoppers, and observers fire off around Jamie. The rich wood floor beneath his feet retracts, illuminating the chamber with the hot glow of lava. An ember singes Jamie’s tail, but he manages to escape a melting death. Running right into two more traps. Cacti rising up, and poison tipped arrows raining down him. 

Lucky’s laugh permeates the darkness, dancing through the firing traps and Jamie’s squeaks as he flees. A TNT blast sends Jamie spinning, burns searing up his legs. Skin hot as flames- 

Wait. Flames. Jamie searches the dark, scrabbling backward as a netherite axe digs into the wood where he laid. Searching for the cold brick, the illumination of the curiosity room. They’re connected. And Jamie is small enough to escape through the fireplace. Stumbling through the darkness, Jamie resorts to running on all fours, low to the ground and feeling the vibrations of the King and his machines aiming for him. 

“No you don’t!” Lucky growls, coiling back his arm and swinging the axe with all his might, eyes red as the blood on his chest. But he just barely misses, rather shaving off a clump of navy fur. All that’s left behind as Jamie is spit out the other side, covered in ash and soot. 

He doesn’t hesitate, running to the seam in the wall and digging his nails in. He doesn’t bother to look for some secret button or lever, a secret book or wonky torch. He pries his way in, and races up the secret stairs, pulling the door closed and begging that Lucky doesn’t know this exists. Jumping over broken steps leading to empty darkness, he leaves the king without his prize.

Unlike his last ascent up a flight of stairs, he doesn’t bother to worry about being heard. He’s abandoned being a sneaky spy to the wind, killed by Void and Fedex in their battle. Even being up here isn’t about being stealthy- it’s about getting away from Lucky. 

Question is, where exactly is he? The stairs are tight, Jamie’s ears brushing along the aged wood. He shuffles his feet, noticing a thin shaft of light illuminating his dirty boots. What once was white is now covered in dirt, blood, and dust. Jamie lays down on the dusty floor, narrowing his icy eyes and struggling to see what’s beyond the portway. It’s bright in this room, quite unlike the rest of the mansion, with white tiles and not a square centimeter of dust. 

Jamie stays quiet for a second, listening to the bubbling and thunking beyond the door. Listening for footsteps, sounds of life- or the dead- on the other side. When he’s sure no one is within the next room, Jamie slips through the hidden entrance. 

He’s in a lab. Pure, blinding white, counters brimming with all kinds of experiments. Most of which Jamie can’t even begin to understand, especially the redstone. In blastproof room, traps are run again and again and again, testing for any failure, ensuring that whoever is caught within these are sure to demise. Some machines are in repair, parts torn out and replaced. Making them more effective. Making the killing more effective. 

Jamie runs his claws along vials of strange colored liquids, the soft clink of nail against glass offering a soprano melody to the alto tone of redstone. He stops at the end of the counter, noticing entire stacks of poisons. Potion of harming, of poison, of weakness and slowness. And a single potion of decay. The black, viscous liquid swirls and rocks within the bottle, as if an unhappy soul was fighting for escape. 

Jamie glances around, then shoves a whole pile of the potions into his pockets, including the potion of decay. He’ll find a use for them, surely. He also snatches a pen, pulling out the notes he stole from Roxy and adding his own within the margins. Everything he sees. Every trap he’s encountered and sees around him, every poison and potion. All of this will go to use in saving his team. And potentially even taking down other teams. 

He’s spooked, jumping out of his skin, at the distant sound of a voice and footsteps. His ears swivel like satellite dishes, perked and attentive as he determines where they’re coming from. Jamie shoves the paper back in his pocket, and darts like a mouse into the nearest door.

“I was beginning to wonder where the creepy library was.” Jamie mutters under his breath. Dark oak shelves tower, with busts of the demised left to cover in cobwebs and dust. Watching him, even when he’s hidden. The shelves are filled with old tomes, in english and standard galactic. Books on curses, dark magic, poison brewing, even an encyclopedia of death. But none of those were the books that caught Jamie’s eye.

In the center of the room, sitting on a lectern and surrounded by soulfire candles, a black-paged book seems to siphon away all light, the black ink faintly glowing. Just enough to be visible against the soot colored parchment. Getting closer to the book, Jamie can see a dark, heavy power emanating, watching swirls of grey mist fall like rain. 

He cranes his neck, squinting to read from as far away as possible. Scrawled atop the page reads four chilling words. 

Curse of Unquiet Dead. 

This is the book that gave rise to demise. This is the curse that they are all blighted with. The words tell the story in gorey detail, of the magic that drags every soul down, filling them with bloodlust and daily vigor to keep fighting, until they die. But then, the curse takes over their corpse, reanimating their cold form. Frenzying them for blood, the only warmth, the only feeling of life. Once the curse has had it’s share of death and fear, it will let them go. Until next time it wishes too feed, and the game starts anew. 

Jamie tries to write down notes, using his hand to back the paper. But the pen keeps ripping through the parchment, and there’s only so much paper for him to fill. This entire book could have ways to beat back the demised, to end the curse, even the fastest way to demise people! Abandoning the paper, Jamie reaches out with his grubby paws and plucks the book from the lectern. Just as unceremoniously, as if it isn’t the source of this curse and magic, he shoves it in with the poisons. Hoping they don’t spill on it. 

This is what he came for. This is the information that can lead him and the few other living furbies to victory. He has to get out, while he’s still ahead. While he still has his head. 

It’s time to go. Jamie exits the creepy library, eyes blinded after so long in low soulflame light to the bright laboratory lights. He stumbles to the nearest iron door, pushing it open. Darkness offers relief to his dilated eyes, spots disappearing in his vision and rewarding him with sight once more. 

A sight he wishes he didn’t have to see. Within the dark cells, beyond the iron bars- though the doors to the jails were open, every monster he could imagine, and those he couldn’t. But the worst of all wasn’t a giant moth, or a neon colored, horned creature. No, it was the well dressed spider, with gleaming, layering pairs of blue and red eyes. Spelle puts down his hand of cards, revealing that he had a royal flush- through not without cheating-, and saunters to the iron bars. 

“Hello, warmblood. Come to give yourself up to the godfather? I can make it quick, and much more interesting than any of those other fools that lurk in the lower levels.” Spelle grins, eyes never moving away from the prey that has fallen into his web. A little mouse for a big spider. He tips his hat up, twirling his cane and walking free. 

“Looks like you’ve been filling your pockets.” Quasar nods their head, wings fluttering as they notice the bulges in his coat. Quasar retrieves their sword, the metal shimmering in the low light. 

“Don’t you know it’s wrong to steal, kiddo?” Dory adds from across the way, her tail wagging slowly, ears perked and eyes trained on Jamie. She’s hunting. 

Spelle shakes his head, tsking through the incisors, tapping them with each sharp click. “You’re falling on the wrong side of the tracks, kid. I’m not to keen on other crime syndicates gettin’ in my way.” Spelle tips his head, nodding towards Jamie. “Givem’ the what’s-what, Quasar.” 

“With pleasure, Spelle.” Quasar stands, twirling their sword for special effect. Though they do drop it, clattering on the ground, Quasar stumbles and gathers the blade, brandishing it between Jamie and himself. The two swords cross at the center, a cold scrape of metal echoing in the monster mafia’s cells. “En garde, princey?”

Jamie doesn’t wait to take defense this time. He goes on the full offense, swiping forward and nearly lobbing off an antenna from Quasar in surprise. His opponent realizes he means business, and the real battle begins. They trade jabs and slashes, sometimes blocking one another, sometimes making a hit. The blood that falls from Jamie’s wounds cause the entire mafia to get wild, hungry for his death. 

But Jamie isn’t going to go down. Not when he has everything to learn if- no, when- he escapes. Quasar blocks Jamie’s cut, deflecting it. With Jamie’s chest left unguarded, Quasar spears forward, ready to run their blade through Jamie and end him. 

The blade simply cuts open air. Quasar blinks, their mind confused when their sword doesn’t meet resistance. They glance down, just quick enough to catch a glimpse of Jamie prone to the ground, crawling in between Quasar’s legs. They turn to catch the little rat, but Jamie kicks Quasar over while they’re turned, pushing them off balance and into the ground. 

Jamie hops atop of Quasar, sticking out his tongue and taunting the rest of the mafia, then makes his leave through the opposite door. Running down the halls, empty and barren, boxes left haphazardly everywhere, he can hear the monsters giving chase. Anger burning through Spelle’s orders. 

Leading the pack, her howl echoing across the rafters, Dory gives chase. Her emerald eyes gleam in the dark, sharp and dialed in on her prey. She’s hunting Jamie, canines vying to bite him and rip him apart. In the adrenaline of the hunt, a piercing, yipping howl tells Jamie she’s getting closer. And closer. 

Until suddenly, all the footsteps stop. Jamie leaps behind a stack of broken pots, listening in for the Mafia’s whereabouts. Instead, he hears a dark chuckle from their leader. “He’s doomed. No one has been in the abandoned wing for weeks, it’s too far trapped. Setting off one will kill him and anyone in there.” 

“Let me hunt him down, Spelle. I can smell him. He stinks.” Dory’s voice snaps like a beast’s maw, each word biting down into Jamie’s ears. “I’m willing to die again, even from that ultimate trap. I want Jamie dead.” 

He doesn’t waste another second eavesdropping. He crawls through the pots, around the boxes, deeper into the abandoned wing. Behind him, he hears another howl. Dory’s on his trail. 

Jamie has to be smart again. Oh boy, that’s tough sometimes. He looks around, but is unable to tell what in this part of the mansion is trapped, what’s just abandoned, and what has been left unfinished. He can see some traps exposed, left behind in lieu for something better. How can a place be overtrapped? What does that mean for him? 

“Come out, come out, come out wherever you are, Jamie.” Dory’s voice is singsong, creepy as it drawls on his name. Jamie takes cover inside a chest, peeking through the thin crack. Dory appears in his vision, each plod of her feet soft and stealthy. Like a wolf hunting, ready to ambush. She’s keen to look out for traps, but the gleaming green eyes are frenzied at the chance to catch her prey. 

Maybe Jamie can use that against her. He kicks the chest open, quite abruptly, spooking both of them by the clatter of the lid. “I’m right here, Dory. Care to cross these traps and get me?” She growls, and jumps over a tripwire, under and observer. Jamie scrambles up the wooden walls, hiding in the rafters. Teasing, taunting her with his tail. “You were supposed to protect Dawn, weren’t you? But instead you betrayed her.” The green fire in her eyes grow brighter, and her steps are less careful. So close to tripping a wire. “And I thought you were a loyal pupper.” 

That does it. She leaps, grabbing his tail. She claws him off the rafter, leaving him hanging as she draws her bow. Taking aim with poisoned arrows, directly for his chest. She shifts her foot forward to gain a better posture. 

And trips the trap. Mechanics firing alarms Dory, and she takes the shot. It hits Jamie, though not a pierce into his heart like she hoped. The poison draws along his hip, far from killing, but definitely hurting him. In the next second, Dory has disappeared with a yelp. The floor has fallen out from under her, dropping her into the lower floors. 

Jamie swings from the rafter, looking down the hole. “Too bad you weren’t a werecat.” 

He’s had enough run ins. It’s time to go. Sneaking be damned, he’s going to bolt for the front door. Leave all the dead and their crazy traps and teams and rooms behind. He scurries down the flight of stairs, jumping over a sign warning the demised not to enter the abandoned wing. 

He runs across the living quarters, not caring if Roxy or whoever else is creeping in their dark crypts hears his running. He can see the grand staircase, what he’s avoided this whole time because of stealth, and knows that just one more flight of stairs means freedom. That he survived the deadquarters. 

“Leaving so soon, Jamie?” He freezes, still as a statue. Not even moving his head to look at Lucky. “We just prepared dinner for you, why don’t you stay awhile?”

To his right, massive doors, taller than any of the dead team, are open. Like arms spread, welcoming, beckoning him into the dining hall. Every single demised sits at the table, more interested in the warmblood than the freaky, creepy plates of food before them. He’s much more appetizing. 

At the end of the massive table, Lucky stands, motioning for him to join them with an unnerving smile. “You’ve stayed so long, certainly you must be hungry! You wouldn’t want to anger all these lovely corpses, would you?” 

Jamie has no choice but to walk into the den of the demised. Every last one, right before him. Sitting at the dinner table, their bodies grey and cold. Only him still alive. Once Jamie is through the door, Lucky snaps his fingers, and the doors shut. He grits back the pain as one pinches his tail, flicking it aside. 

“So, Jamie. I believe you found something quite interesting of mine.” Lucky sits down, tossing his ashen hair back. Revealing the bloostained shirt, red marring the grey at his chest. Lucky nods to Jamie’s coat, so torn and dirty. Hardly even white anymore. “Hand it over, have some dinner, and we’ll let you die painlessly.” 

“What? No! I’m not agreeing to that shite idea!” Jamie snaps, grabbing the book and holding it close to his chest. He can feel the curse eeking out, grasping to his beating heart like a parasite. 

Beside Lucky, Roxy shakes her head. “It’s so impolite to refuse an offer like that. LUcky was just trying to help, love.” 

Lucky nods, looking left, then right. “I was going to let you give the book back. But now we’ll have to take it from your warm, dead hands.” Lucky’s eyes grow dark, his smile manic. “Get him.” 

The dining hall erupts, a dozen different weapons crashing into the air where Jamie stood a second before. How the hell is he supposed to take on more than seventy cold-blooded killers, who will stop at nothing to kill him? 

The clatter of a class chalice reminds Jamie of what he has in his pocket. He pulls the potions out, one by one, and throws them haphazardly over his shoulder. Hearing the sound of shattered glass and dead retreating. But it’s only momentarily. And soon, he’s cornered. Both sides of the rotund dining hall are pouring with greyskins, each one more than willing to make the killing blow. 

Jamie raises his hand, revealing the potion of decay. “Stand back! I know this hurts you just as much as me. We all know wither is more painful than death. I will break this!” 

“That’s cute.” Midas hums, the watchers and listeners floating above the crowd. Jamie raises his blade, but Lucky knocks it aside, then in a roundhouse kick, knocks him out. 

The gods arguing are the last thing Jamie hears, trying to decide who, and how to demise him. But Lucky speaks up. “I know exactly how to end him. Let’s get to the basement.” 

Jamie gasps, eyes blinking away the darkness of unconsciousness. He’s on his back, resting on cold, hard stone. Staring up at a smooth cavern ceiling, cliff edges dropping down into the pit he’s in now. His hand rests on his chest, feeling each breath rise and fall. 

He’s still breathing. He’s alive. His ears twitch at the sound of falling pebbles, forcing him upright. Jamie’s head swims, both from sitting up too quickly and Lucky’s heavy blow to his head. He follows the rain of dirt, dust, and rock, all the way up. And realizes he has an audience. 

At the cliff edge, seventy something pairs of eyes stare down at him, grey bodies the same color as the cave walls around them. Nearly blending in, if it weren’t for the few sparks of color in eyes, bloody clothes, and hellfire. 

Lucky kicks a rock down, forcing Jamie to make eye contact with the dead. He can see firelight glimmering off YanDan's knife, the hungry stares of Midas and Roxy beside Lucky. Fedex and Void, with ice packs strapped to their head, seem keen to see Jamie get a taste of his own medicine. “We could’ve buried you alive, there’s a nice speakeasy down here for that, all hidden away. Or poisoned you, seeing as you saw our laboratory. Quasar and Spelle have been doing good work there. Or even drowned you. But those are so passive, so boring. This?” Lucky laughs, his chuckle echoing and bounced off the cave walls. “This is so much more fun.” 

A lit torch appears in Lucky’s hand, the only light in the cavern. In the other, Jamie can see the book. Carelessly, as if he just dropped it, he tosses the fire into the pit. It clatters to the floor, and explodes into a wildfire. The ground is covered in sap, bundles of wood igniting into pyres of flame. Creeping towards him. 

Jamie tries one last desperate escape, scrabbling up the walls, claws digging into the stone. But he just falls back into the pit, the sinister laughter of the dead above watching. A howling chortle from Dory, a slithering snicker from Spelle, a guffaw from Quasar. He feels the fire burn his tail, the blue tuft blackened and smoking. An ember catches his coat aflame, and his boots are unable to scrabble away from the fire as it surrounds him. Fills his vision with yellows, oranges, and reds. Filling him with light. 

Until he meets the dark.

###### 

The bed he rests in is soft, but the blanket over him does little to warm his little body. He feels freezing cold. As cold as-

Jamie opens his eyes, and immediately raises his hand. Grey. He flicks his tail out from under the covers, grasping it. Grey. Even his coat is grey, although it looks as if someone washed it- at least the white is actually white as well. Jamie groans, realizing what he is now. The very thing he feared, he became. 

“Welcome to the dead team, lieutenant Jamie.” Lucky smiles, a warm and friendly smile. Nothing like the viscous king he was for Jamie’s death. “Now we’re on the same team, I don’t have to worry about you doing stupid stuff.” 

Jamie sighs. He wanted to live, to be someone that entered the deadquarters, and left alive. But...the dead do seem to have more fun. He can feel the curse filling him with the desire to kill, the want for warmth that warmbloods carry. Death only released him. 

He stands, grabbing his coat and spinning it over his back as he puts it on. “Well, guess it’s time I get to work. There’s a certain dragon I want to slay.”


	43. Defense Lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More angst? Don't mind if I do

The king of the dead didn't like to show when he's nervous, or that the blood on his hands felt wrong this time. He's killed so many times, but this time? It wasn’t even his kill, but he still felt like it was his fault. 

Avons still alive. But she's been weakened, and the curse is tightening around the living, one last attempt to squeeze out horror before going dormant again. Then they will all be free, to return to their normal lives. Lucky will feel warmth, experience color spread across his face. But right now, he only feels horror.

The very man she mourned killed her. On top of his own grave. Lucky knows he is the keeper of the book that summons the curse, the king of demise, but its never been like this before. 

Lucky needs to get her blood off him. Right now. The blood feels like its burning his grey, cold skin. He runs to the ornate bathroom, begging for the piping to be working. Dust spits out at first, before hot water runs out of the faucet. Too hot, too much like the fresh blood as it poured from Avon's wound. 

He scrabbles backwards, seeing himself in the mirror. Why does this bother him? Is it the curse beginning to lift? The betrayal between two rivals, or whatever Jamie and Avon are? Or just the sheer shock, the look on Avon's face, surprise melted into joy just to see Jamie again? 

Whatever it is, Lucky doesn't like it. He can't stand to be here, in the deadquarters. He's not sure he can stand to be with the other watchers and listeners. He needs to be among the living, the few who remain. He needs to remember what its like to be alive, without taking it from another.

(303 words)


	44. Hit Jamie?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I mean you're already dead and now I am too but I started this last night and wanted to finish it before my body got cold.

She didn't bury him. But she did visit his grave. She knew her time was over soon, she could feel the cold breath of death down her back. She didn't have much time. Perhaps she shouldn't be wasting it here, among the fallen. She should be enjoying the warmth while it lasts, not among the cold grey must and clammy ground. Protecting the End with her fellow Ender Ender, or just enjoying what could be her final meal, her final flight, her final moments of warmth in the sun. Instead she's here. 

The deadquarters loomed over the valley of the dead, a silent watcher to the freshly fallen, a grim reminder to those who remain. Avon tries not to let it disturb her, but she knows they're watching. Hungry for blood. 

The lilacs were fresh cut, left among the other flowers, but Avon also has something she needs to return to Jamie. His sword. She kneels down, raising the blade before plunging it into the wet earth. Rain begins to fall. 

"Why do you mourn a rival?" Avon’s breath catches in her throat. Jamie sits atop his own tombstone, tail black as soot and eyes grey. The white of his uniform remain, as does his hat continue to be worn proudly between his ears, but the brass buttons have lost their sheen, and a hole through Jamie's beloved Jefferson reminds them both of his trip to the deadquarters. To which he never returned. Marks on his uniform, his body tell the story of his death. And the story of his survival. "Seems pretty counterintuitive, in my opinion."

Avon scrabbles backwards, her hand resting on the metal of her trident. Jamie's among the dead now. They never were on the same team, but now they aren't even on the same side. And she thought he was feral when he was alive. 

But Jamie doesn't seem interested in a fight. He looks down, noticing his sword and pulling it free. A coy smile appears on his face. "Thanks for keeping this safe. I can't wait to use this on you."

"Should've thrown it in a river, along with you." Avon huffs, before relaxing. Only slightly. "Hows death treating you?"

"Im cold." Jamie shakes his head. Avon almost offers her cloak for him, or even some of her warmth, but she remembers that only blood can warm a greyskin.

"You were a fool to go into the deadquarters. I told you it would only lead to your demise." Her words spit like fire, a hint of anger mixing with her sadness. Her wings ruffle, talons raised.

"You know me. I can't ever leave things to chance." Jamie chuckles, tipping his head back and gazing at the mansion. "You still never answered my question. Why do you mourn me?"

Why does Avon mourn? "It was fun, battling you. I looked forward to facing off. You were a worthy opponent, a spitfire in battle. You kept me on my toes and made me laugh. Rivals doesn't have to mean enemies, right?"

There's a deathly silence between the two. The newly dead, and the dying living. Avon is comfortable in silence- she's used to it from her years of self exile. But Jamie can't stay quiet for long. And he doesn't like seeing his rival down. "How about one last duel? I swear I won't kill you this time. No promises after, though. You are my rival, and I wouldn't mind getting to be Jamie the dragonslayer."

Avon laughs, short but just enough to make Jamie smile. She rises from her seat and her mourning, pulling free her trident. "Lets see how that cold body's reflexes have changed, you little gremlin."

(616 words)


	45. Hit Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess my oldest waiting hit will be my first as a dead dragon. 
> 
> I just couldn't wait anymore Dawn ily but this was so fun to write it needs to see the light of day 
> 
> Cw:crushed by machinery

As soon as Dawn is free from sleep that plagues her, she’s back to work. Shoving a golden carrot into her mouth, she slides down the vines from the melon farm and jumps the remaining distance. Her boots land with a heavy thud, a very satisfying noise echoing through the explosion chamber of her wood farm. She made sure it was completely soundproof, as all explosive based farms are, just to ease her fears.

Dawn doesn’t hear the sound of the TNT exploding, doesn’t see the wood shrapnel fall from the blast chamber. With a resounding snort, she closes her real eye and focuses in on her flower eye. It has to be the redstone. Again. She’s been working on this design of her own for months, and just when she thinks she finally has a working wood farm, it does this. 

The yellow flower in her right eye blossoms, opening it’s petals and soaking in the light. In this vision, she can see the weak light that all redstone burns, tracking her redstone paths and discovering a broken t-flop. 

Not a second is wasted with Dawn. She’s already elbow deep in the redstone, pulling the broken mechanism apart and putting it back together. She knows it’s working again when she hears the distant sound of tnt against wood and obsidian. She swells with pride, watching the redstone pulse flicker across the path for a few moments before moving on. 

Dawn can never stay still for long. The only thing that ever manages to slow her down is when her body practically crashes, especially when her floral arm steals the last dregs of strength from her human body. And every time, she wakes up with a face full of redstone dust, marring her face like blood from a cut, dangerously close to whatever farm and all it’s mechanisms. She’s lucky the worst it’s done is singe her peach colored hair. 

Continuing around, farm to farm, she checks the productivity of each one, running petalled fingers along the lines as she walks to check for failures- either in her invention or her line laying. She jumps from a sugar cane farm, down to the chorus fruit, before climbing up a ladder and checking on the rates of her iron farm. 

Once she’s sure that every farm is up and running (and now about to implode on itself), Dawn turns her attention to her current project- a storage system of her own design. All of these farms flow to her base, a beautiful and detailed home she’s proud to call hers. Once they reach her storage rooms, the contents are dropped into their assigned chests, and above the storage, a redstone lamp shows how full the system is. From some chests, auto crafting and smelting continues to refine the desired material. 

Right now, she has to connect the lamps to the system. She gets to work, as the sun rises over her industrial farms. Her hands are stained red with the dust, her clothes and skin patchy with the bright, energetic material. Just as energetic as her. 

Even through the heat of the day, Dawn continues her work. Carefully drawing lines of redstone, flicking repeaters and comparators, and placing redstone torches. She brushes her good arm over her sweaty brow, leaving a streak of redstone christening her job. But she doesn’t care. She’s used to crunch of redstone in places redstone should never be. She’s gotten used to the jolting surprise when she gets it in her mouth, running circuits across her tongue. 

Only one thing can break Dawn’s feverish concentration on her work. It’s the sound of a nasal laugh. It falls in octave like a staircase with each burst, and when Dawn hears it from beyond the dim light cast by the redstone, her entire body freezes with fear. Not even a petal flutters in the wind. 

A bottle breaks just a few feet before her, and she skitters away from the attacking witch. The sound of glass shattering echoes in her mind, reminding her of the worst day of her life. The day she should’ve died, about a dozen times over. But the fates were kind, or cruel, and now she’s what she is now. 

She’s so lost in her thoughts, trapped in her memories, she doesn’t realize she’s fallen right into a trap. Not physically- there’s no tripwire or pressure plate. No lava fall or poison arrow. But Dawn is trapped all the same- one trident buries itself into the stone wall in front of her, so close it pluck a petal off her cheek. When Dawn turns around to run the other direction, another trident boxes her in. These are her own tridents, fresh from her drowned farm. 

Trapped, she’s left with no way to turn but forward. In the darkness, she almost can’t see the monster in the dark. Not with ebony black wings to hide her purple gaze, or fluffy blonde hair. The pinions draw back like a curtain, revealing Avon. In one hand, her loyalty trident glows in the darkness, casting a purple glow across a dangerous face. In the other, a beaten trident from Dawn’s farm twirls in her hand. 

“No squad to protect you now, flower girl.” Avon pirouttes, spinning before launching the secondary trident. Dawn squeaks, and ducks just in time. The cyan metal sings as it reverberates. Dawn doesn’t take the time to think about the physics behind the oscillation. 

She runs. She’s been prepared for being targeted, but of course she’s nowhere near the traps she’s set up. She leaps over trails of redstone and wades through water chutes. Losing ground fast, compared to Avon. The dragonheart lithely squeezes between the paths of energy, the floors of farms, even weaving through a bamboo farm like it was nothing. 

Dawn was out of time. The shadow eclipses moonlight, casting wings of shade across Dawn. She was out of time, out of room to run. To Avon, Dawn was cornered. 

But Dawn has led Avon to a trap of her own. She’s standing on a sown dirt block, among an unfilled field. It looks as if she were halfway finished with this farm, but in reality every single block of tilled land is a trap. 

She kicks the soil, turning it back to the dry dirt. She sees the redstone line beneath the ground, glowing and visible to her flower eye, opening the earth beneath Avon’s feet. There’s a second of shock, the sensation causing Avon’s heart to jump, but in the end she doesn’t fall. She has wings, leaving her suspended over the lava pit. Dawn jumps onto another plot, and arrows rain from the tangle of machinery above her. 

It becomes a dance, Dawn kicking the dirt around her and making Avon flee, dodge, and fly to escape the traps. Giggling, Dawn turns her back, continuing to do her jig across the soil. “Dance with me, dragon!” 

She raises her bushy arm, twirling around to imaginary music. Until there was no hand to snap fingers with. Humming turns to a cry of pain, petals falling like rain around her. The trident turns back around, returning to it’s master, loyal as ever. Behind Dawn, a cobblestone generator activates, the explosion loud and sending Dawn skittering away. She cradles where her flower hand would be, tight to her chest as the other climbs away from Avon. 

In the second she had turned away from Avon, the dragonheart had escapes the endless barrage of traps. Flying straight through a lava floe, she shrugged off the pain, the singed hair and wings. She chases, landing on the wall that separates the cobblestone farm and a nearby redstone door. 

Dawn’s body is quickly losing to fatigue. She’s breathing heavy, gasping at the windy air at the top of the farm, but manages to right herself and face Avon. She raises her arm, protecting her chest from being punctured three times over, and uses the other hand to push Avon away. 

She doesn’t have a weapon on her, she’s left to only block with her floral forearm. It offers minimal defense at best, and each scrape across the wood shaves off more flowers. Pain shoots up the wooden arm, blood pouring from wounds and staining the cobblestone to look more like netherrack. 

Another attack, two of the trident’s prongs twisting and trapping Dawn’s arm in between the metal. Dawn looks up, fearful eyes meeting Avon’s burning gaze. She feels like a forest, swept up in a wildfire. Trapped. 

Avon twists the trident, and the wooden arm snaps. At first, Dawn doesn’t feel the pain. Her body doesn’t know what to do with her arm being ripped apart. It’s not just a clean snap. No, the wood splinters and peels, like a new sapling in the spring. Dawn watches her arm fall, not quite matching the fact that it’s her limb that’s laying at the bottom of the wall.

Seconds later, the pain finally arrives. It sears across her body, blinding every other sense. She can’t even hear herself scream, taste the blood in her mouth as she bites her tongue. Blood pours over Dawn’s body, staining her skin a deep, dark red. Not the neon color of redstone. No, this is the color of death, not energy. And without her arm, drowning in the excruciating pain, Dawn is unable to defend against Avon. 

The triple puncture in her chest only fuels the pain, washing over every in of Dawn. She manages to look down, staring at the blue metal protruding from her chest. She takes one, two pained breaths, but she’s drowning. Drowning in her own blood, filling her lungs and rising like bile up her throat. 

Avon plants her foot in the center of Dawn’s chest, and tips the redstone engineer just over the precipice of the wall. Below Dawn, tnt is painted red from her blood before blowing apart the cobble. The dragonheart reaches out with her free hand, and plucks one unstained yellow flower from Dawn’s shoulder. Dawn knows that pain should be excruciating, but compared to everything else, it’s nothing more than a bugbite. 

Avon tucks the flower into her hair, a souvenir, then shoves her weight into Dawn’s stomach. Dawn falls back, free from the trident in her chest, and into the maws of her own machine. Pistons gnash at her body like teeth, tnt tearing her apart. The sound of explosions muffles the screaming, until all that’s left in the farm are a few crushed flowers. 

And in time, even they wilt and die.

(1765 words)


	46. Breath in Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not really a hit just a drabble and announcing my own demise D:

Avon’s quiet, sitting in silence in her seat. She’s not typically one to be shy- though she is a loner- but this? This is different. These people were trying to kill her just a few hours before. One of them succeeded. She’s still freshly dead, waking up alone in her grave. She managed to get one last goodbye to her teammate before dying. A promise that Ender Enders never end. Crawling out, she had taken a second to rest atop Jamie’s grave beside hers. 

But the curse, though waning, still had it’s pull on her corpse. Fresh and young, the Unquiet Dead was drawn to the deadquarters. The very people who demised her opened the gates, welcomed her inside. They still looked at her with the gaze of a hungry wolf, her body still cooling, blood still freezing in her veins. She was in an odd state of life and death. She was always cold, but could feel her blood still warm in her veins, though unmoving. 

She has a room in the deadquarters, though sleeping doesn't feel right. Too much like the other thing. After exploring the mansion, she sat in the room, just taking in the feeling of demise. The curse was almost over- she almost survived- but now she’s here. She hates the feeling of the curse in her body, moving her, urging her to kill. Now, she’s more of a monster than ever. 

Sitting in her chair, Avon’s never felt more alone, despite being surrounded by a hundred or more cold corpses. They talk over their plans, the plots to kill the remaining alive. Sometimes, at random, they just kill each other. Avon doesn’t speak, doesn’t look anyone in the eye, doesn’t write anythign down. But she makes sure to remember any time they mention Exnoh’s name. She may be dead, but she’ll protect her living friend to the end. 

Avon feels like a stranger, an outsider, like a new kid in school. No one knows her expect that she’s new, and most of those around her spent the last few weeks attempting to kill her. She glances up, locking eyes with Roxy for a moment, then dipping her head back down. She lets her hair curtain her face, hiding from the dead and hiding from death. 

The others continue to plot, scheme, and murder around her. She knows she’s dead, but sometimes she forgets. She knows she no longer has to breathe, but she still does it- and it attracts attention. In the breaks of silence between questions, when the others ponder the possibilities of death, it’s her breath that becomes the only noise in the room. Drawing attention to her, reminding her that she doesn’t truly belong here. 

She doesn’t notice the meeting is over until a hand rests on her shoulder. The room has cleared out, only three people remaining. Roxy’s in a chair beside her, Jamie sitting on the table, and Lucky offering a gentle squeeze of her shoulder. “It’s almost over. There’s no better feeling than the moment the curse is lifted off your body. The feeling of warmth, of color.” 

“I can’t wait to eat tasty food again. And we can have real duels, Avon.” Jamie chuckles. 

Avon shakes her head, raising her wing to try and remove Lucky’s hand, to hide herself from the others. But Lucky is steadfast, refusing to budge. Refusing to let Avon isolate herself, put herself into exile again. “You aren’t alone, we can still have fun even in the headquarters. It’ll be over soon.” 

“Let’s go to the garden. It’s peaceful there.” Roxy offers, knowing Avon prefers flora and fauna to others. 

“Mud bath!” Jamie shouts, scrabbling off the table and to the door, before turning and waiting for Avon. Lucky and Roxy shake their head, and start for the door. All three of the demised look back at Avon, alone in the room. They offer warm smiles, the only warm thing in this mansion, beckoning for Avon to join. 

Reluctantly, she does, taking her friends’ hands and following them like a child to the garden. 

(682 words)


	47. Colorful Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy end of Demise! This has been so fun and uplifting, I'm honored to have played with so many talented people. And made so many new friends. Especially hats off to Exnoh, my partner in crime and other half of our weird team rocket buddy cop group. And Jamie, my rival /frenemy. I had so much fun because of you guys, and Lucky, and Roxy, and Dawn and everyone else!

No one really knew when they came. When the curse had sated it’s thirst for fear, feeding on the lifeforce of the dead. When they were free from the bonds of death, as the curse goes dormant until waking next time. 

But when it does come, everyone knows of it. The headquarters was busy, in a strange mix of quiet cacophony. Some rooms were loud with teammates crowing and having fun, other rooms quiet with sorrowed introspection. 

Avon looked out the window, watching the cemetery in the valley fill more. There was no one left alive. There was no winner this time. She watches as the last corpse is buried, Fluid high fiving Fedex as they covered the last person shallow. Avon looks down at her hands, grey and cold. The last wisps of warmth are fading in her. Behind where she sits, silent and somber, she can hear Exnoh teasing Jamie about something. Exnoh is hardly even lukewarm, though Jamie’s fully settled into his life among the dead. 

So when Avon first hears the low rumble, she doesn’t believe it at first. But the next crack of thunder, so much louder, snaps her to stand up. Her cloak, torn and shredded like her wings, dances behind her, fluttering slightly. Her chair knocks over, alerting the other three in the room. Even Lucky looks up from his book. “Avon?”

Avon’s ears flick, hearing a rolling crack echoing across the valley, reverberating against the aged windows of the headquarters. 

And then she sees it. A single drop of rain, flicked across the window, falling down the pane like a tear across the glass. Another, then another, and another. Until it becomes a soft patterned sound of rain against the windows, against the walls. Pouring onto the roof many floors above, falling down waterspouts in small waterfalls. 

The rain has come. 

Avon grabs Jamie’s and Exnoh’s hand, a surprise to both of them that she initiates contact. Jamie manages to grab Lucky before they’re dragged out of the room, down the halls. Avon jumps over the traps, and pulls open the doors. 

She stands at the opening, taking in the sight. Of rain falling, a heavy storm all across this world. The rain is soft but strong, warm but refreshing. It washes away the stains of death, patting down the dirt from the graves and explosions, filling creekbeds with water and washing away the scent of death. 

A soft breeze plays with Avon’s hair, and she closes her eyes, taking in the scent of petrichor. One hand sticks out, though she recoils by the touch of rain on the back of her hand. When she opens her eyes, the water spreads across her skin, spreading color. Spreading life, washing away the grey like ash after a fire. Giving way for new life. 

The others pour out into the rain, all sorrow and anger washed away in the shower. Even Jamie relishes in the feeling, as droplets of water cascade down his ears, turning his fur back to the navy blue he loves. They play in the puddles and dance in the rain, like children, breaking free of the curse that held them down. That imprisoned them in a cycle of death. 

Demise was over, and the rains had come. 

Avon steps into the rain, tipping her head up and feeling drops dance across her face. Feeling open wounds fade to scars, color and warmth spreading across her face. Feeling the rain fall, starting from her cheek, racing down her jaw, along her neck, wisping away blood. Falling from her fingertips and wingtips, before joining the puddles on the ground. 

She hears Exnoh call her name, seeing their purple skin and glowing amber eyes. Jamie’s taill whips with the water, like a wet paintbrush colored blue. And her own cloak flutter that beautiful purple she dearly loves. “Come on Avon, come dance with us! We’re free!” 

And so she did. She played in the rain, with her allies and enemies, Rivals and kinds. They played in the life giving rain, and life poured into their beings once more.


	48. Be Still Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i am once again simping for Jamie's sona. he's just so much fun to write, and now i love watching ferret videos. 
> 
> Enjoy the void, dear rival

Jamie slips through the portal as if he’s falling into a pool of water, but on the other side of the rift he’s spat out to an obsidian platform. He’ll be honest, he’s never been to the End before, but the stories he was told by Lucky and others made it seem like a dangerous wasteland. And the most dangerous part is crossing the void, from where he sits down to the rough island of the lost. 

But a bridge of stone and obsidian arches over the endless space below, with rails and simple patterns. Jamie brushes the dust off his white uniform, grey claws catching against a tear in the fabric. From when he was demised. He expects the area around him to echo with every step, but there’s nothing. Nothing for each footstep to bounce off of. They just continue for eternity into space. 

His eyes follow to a satellite island, where a small cottage rests. Trees grow next to Chorus fruit, a garden surrounding purple water, and lilacs along a creek adorn the home. Jamie smirks, getting down on all fours and skittering across the rough endstone.

At the sound of wings beating in the fuzzy sky above, Jamie rolls and presses himself against a black obsidian tower. Watching with clever, feral eyes as Avon lands next to a lilac bush. Her wings go from wide open, revealing the scars in the membrane he left her, to tucked neatly against her back. Purple cloak dancing, enticing Jamie. Beckoning him closer. 

A toothy grin appears on his face. She doesn’t even know he’s following her. She trims her beloved lilacs, removing dead leaves and pulling free a few flowers to put in her cottage. He’s just on the other side of the creek, hunkered down in the tall grass. Jamie might as well take his chance to spy on his rival. Learn of her weaknesses, when she’s most vulnerable. 

For such a well versed warrior, someone he’s so used to duking it out with, seeing her humming as she gardens was strange. She’s so focused on her beloved potatoes, she doesn’t even hear Jamie as he sneaks up on her. 

Until he’s directly behind her, and she suddenly turns around. Jamie jumps back a good foot, and she falls over onto her rear. Both quite surprised to lock eyes with one another. Avon recovers first, however, and leans forward, purple eyes glimmering to see her rival. “What do you think you’re doing in the land of the lost, little ferret?” 

“I never properly got to kill you, and being dead, this body of mine practically sings to defeat my rival.” At the mention of death and chaos, Jamie gets a burst of energy and excitement. Clambering onto all fours, back arched and tail swinging in no sense of order or reason, he hops and rolls around in the grass and endstone. A throaty trill of noises follows him as he bounces back and forth, up and down, his war dance fueled by energy and thrill of the fight. 

Avon watches, concern and curiosity on her face. At least she gives him the decency to get his energy out before she retrieves her trident. With that, Jamie scurries off, into her cottage and shutting the door. “Jamie! I’m going to kill you!” 

“I’m already dead.” Jamie giggles, looking around to see what trouble he can cause. He doesn’t have long until she breaks a window or the door, so he scurries over to her bed, hopping up and wrestling with her covers. “I think this bed would be better with my help.” 

“Don’t you dare.” She hisses, reeling her hand back and punching the door. “Do you know how hard it is to make a bed that won’t explode in the End?”

“Come on, let me get comfy!” Jamie digs through the sheets, claws ripping at the mattress. When the door splinters apart, he jumps out of the way of the trident just in time, his tail slithering in between two prongs. He grabs Avon’s blanket and runs off with it, scrabbling on top of her bookshelves and chests, knocking them over. The entire time, he’s cackling. Causing mayhem- his favorite thing. 

Avon rises into the rafters, lofted on her wings, and grabs Jamie midjump from a lectern to a table. He squeaks and squirms in her grip, attempting to bite anything he can get his teeth to latch onto. Avon sends the squirming lieutenant flying through the broken door, skipping across the stone 

Jamie struggles to rise from the ground. His arms shake as he pushes up, and he hardly has a second to react when he notices Avon swooping in for him, like a hawk after prey. He unsheathes his black in the nick of time, locking it into her trident. She’s above him, pressing her trident down, pushing against his sword. Jamie tips his head back, avoiding the sharp blue metal that ghosts against his neck. He gulps, looking up at Avon. He can hear her heart beating, alive and pumping warm blood. How much he wants to bestill that heart, take out his rival as revenge for demising him. Who would’ve thought a dragon and a ferret would become rivals in this crazy game of demise? Frenemies of the best and worst kind? 

But he’s not going to go down that easily. The adrenaline of the kill flows through his cold, dead veins, surpassing his own still, dead heart. With a snarl and a snap of daggerlike teeth, he reels his legs back and kicks Avon in the stomach. A small window of opening, but enough time for him to slip out from under Avon, out from under the blade that threatened to pierce his throat. 

He needs more space to run, places to crawl and use the environment to his advantage. But this is all new to him- the End, Avon’s cottage, the chorus trees. Maybe he can bait her into a trap. Jamie turns around, sticking his tongue out and waving his tail mockingly. Behind Avon’s angry gaze, he can see the glint of joy, of excitement. As much of an annoyance he is, he knows there’s a part of Avon that loves their jabs. It’s what keeps her coming back- or maybe it’s just Jamie’s natural charisma. 

Turning back to the land before him, his eyes widen as he sees the gap between the main island and the floating land he’s on now. Only the empty expanse of the void below, the thin air just waiting to rip him apart, atom by atom. 

It’s not a far jump. Jamie scrapes his boots against the rough endstone, measuring the grip of his feet. And a snicker appears on his face. He lowers the brim of his bicorne. 

He can make this jump. Easy. Behind him, the sound of a trident ricocheting against the ground reminds him of the dragon he’s taunted. But he focuses on building up his speed, his strength. And as the ground runs short, he takes the leap. 

Problem is- he’s short as well. And he misjudged the true size of the gap. He never quite even reaches a vertex to his jump, but rather begins plummeting immediately. His dead, still heart jumps in his throat from the sudden sensation of falling, and Jamie reaches out for Avon. Desperate not to die of falling. Like an idiot. 

Surprisingly enough, Avon does reach back. He plummets, and she beats her wings, following him into the void below. He can feel the air in his lungs grow thin, his skin prickling as the void of space starts to pull on his body. His fingers ghost against Avon’s gloves, stretching for help. 

But Avon stops suddenly, hovering at the edge of death. And Jamie continues to fall. Beyond the distance Avon was willing to travel- where there’s no chance of escape. And Jamie continues to fall, like a rock sinking in the sea. 

He came to the End to give Avon her own demise. But instead he met his. Again.


	49. Monster Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi avon's in an ouchie mood, and honestly i was inspired by a scene from my favorite halloween show so enjoy avon angst
> 
> cw: blood, broken bones, minor torture, sad moments

Blood crests around Avon’s eye, down her cheek like a tear until it meets the ridge of her jaw. From there it drops, twisting and turning to it’s own music, joining the dark ochre puddle between Avon’s feet. Her blonde hair curtains the bruised and bloody face, full of grime, matted in blood. With each shuttering gasp, a struggling breath expands and contracts her chest. Despite the torture long over, the pain still lingers, scratching at her throat and constricting her lungs. With every breath, her ribs shift and turn. 

Weakly, she twists her hands, but they’re tightly secured behind her, ropes biting into skin rubbed raw. Avon summons the strength to fight against the bonds, but she’s firmly held to the legs of the chair by her feet, the back by her chest, and her hands to each other. 

And her wings? 

Pinned to the ground, like a butterfly on display. She could move them, but every twitch is another tear in the membrane. The cobblestone floor is the color of netherrack now. This isn’t the first time Avon has found herself in a predicament like this, though it hasn’t been this way in years. She thought she had grown wary enough to not get captured, or maybe just that she spent most of her time in exile in the End. Or her journeys with the wanderers kept her protected by friends. 

Perhaps she got weaker during demise, or perhaps with the relief of the end of the curse, she let down her guard. One way or another, she was shot down, and now finds herself in the pit of a church tower. The sounds of the village outside, going about their daily lives, unknowing to the creature in pain within. Or perhaps they do know, but just don’t care. No villager likes a dragonheart. 

Especially not a cleric. The old oak door opens, but Avon doesn’t pick up her head. She doesn’t need to see who was at the door to know. The flowing purple fabric- not her own cloak- tells her everything. The footsteps echo up and down the tower, stalking her like a predator hunting it’s prey. The dragon has become the prey.

“Draons are the worst. Dragonhearts are monsters,” Avon flinches at the last word. She hates being called that. “But now? Now the monster has been corrupted by a curse.” 

“I’m not a monster.” Avon growls, but the villager isn’t listening. 

“The cursed book is a danger to us all, as are those who get caught in it’s game. But a dragonheart playing? Just collecting curses at this point.” The footsteps stop, and for a short second, there’s only silence. Until pain rips up Avon’s wings, the pins holding them down grinding into the black. “No one is here to help you, monster. No one would help a thing like you. Your friends are gone. All you have is enemies now.” 

And Avon knows he’s right. The Wanderers aren’t around, Exnoh is back in the End. It’s just her. The door opens, and closes once more. Left to the pain, the wounds, the silence. Alone again. Avon was more alone surrounded by villagers than she’d ever be in the End. 

Alone, the monster can only consider her next move- and remember not to slip up again. She’s got no one to turn to here. Only herself. And the streaks of red are met with clear streams of water, the monster cries through her pain alone.


	50. Dress Debacle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a cursed piece to be my fiftieth chapter. Well, cursed writing for a cursed art piece
> 
> In all honesty I love the piece and I'm so honored that you made it Fluid- art is so wonderful and every piece means so much to my little writer heart. Even the cursed ones.

Capturing Avon was the easy part. Fluid's net did a pretty handy job, wrapping around Avon’s wings and sending the dragon crashing to the ground. From there, Fluid just had to watch her teeth and the talons at the tip of her wings. But Avon isn’t quite as feral as Jamie, so this was easy to drag her along. 

The hard part was getting Avon in the dress. It was manhandling in the strangest way, like fighting with a five year old that didn’t want to get dressed for school. If that five year old had massive black dragon wings and the tongue of a salty sailor. Much to Fluid’s chagrin, Avon’s wings didn’t quite fit with the outfit they had made just for this wonderful, cursed idea. They had to make the slits for the wings bigger than they were expected, and Avon refused to let go of her cloak the entire time. 

But, in the End, Fluid won out the battle. They presented their creation to all of the members of the world- Avon standing in a bubblegum pink dress, her arms crossed and back arched like an angered cat, wild hair tamed down by a matching pink hairpiece. The purple cloak- typically matched with dark, muted colors- now adds to the frilly, puffy skirt that brushes Avon’s stockinged legs. Wings crest up, trying to make Avon as big as she can possibly be. 

Avon is so glad Exnoh isn’t around to see this. She’s glad Jamie doesn’t seem to be around- the last thing she needs is her rival to see this. But everyone else is looking at her. She feels so exposed, so unprepared for battle. If something bad happened, she’d be the last person ready for a fight. Her legs are unprotected, the dress so bulky and constricting. 

Fluid giggles, the noise muffled by their helmet. “I feel like there’s probably some show about something like this.” They muse, proud of taming the dragonheart to the point of getting her in a dress. “You look adorable, Avon.” 

That was the last straw, Avon’s nails digging into her exposed arms. Fluid hears the seams snap as wings beat, Avon stretching her arms and wings in ways no maid dress was designed for. They try to stop Avon before she finds full freedom, grabbing for just about anything they can manage to grab. But Avon just swings around, eyes burning with a seething fire.

Puffy sleeves are torn from the body of the dress, the smock torn to shreds. Fluid catches one look of Avon, trident already in hand and flying back to where Fluid stole her clothes, before Avon slaps them in the face with the pink headpiece. A second later, a low throaty growl meets the sound of metal piercing armor, and warm blood seeping from Fluid's chest. They feel like they probably deserved being skewered, but it's worth it.

They may have lost their muse, but Fluid was proud one way or another. Who else can say they managed to get a dragon in a maid’s dress?


	51. You'll Probably Go to Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank Roxy for the song recommendation, [I Can't Decide](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=buYrBbwyCGE) , Void for the idea of Avon being controlled by an End Crystal, Exnoh for reminding me of TGWDLM, and of course Jamie for letting me be weird and kill his sona again and again.

“Its...not…” The humming, soft and sickly sweet, jolts Jamie up from his slumber. No, not slumber. Not based on the way his head aches, the dried blood crusted over his eye. At first, he’s not sure if the fuzzy world around him is just his addled mind, or if the sky is really that busy with stars or snow or whatever. 

But when he sees the yellow dirt, peeking out from behind and between tall, black spires in the sky, he knows where he is. And he knows it’s not a good thing. He attempts to stand, to get the hell out of dodge before he angers the guardians of this land, but discovers that his hands and feet are bound. Rope binds his hands behind his back, fastened to a length along his torso and secured on the back of a wooden chair, and more of the line bonding his feet to the legs. 

He struggles against the bonds, rocking back and forth in hopes of finding some escape. He claws at the rope, but his nails are little more than files on stone. Slamming his back against the chair, it starts to tip backwards. Further, and further. 

Until someone catches him by the tail, stopping him. Stopping him from falling hundreds of meters to the ground. Jamie turns his head, and a hand settles on top of his head, repositioning his hat- Jefferson- from meeting a similar fate he almost did. “Avon?” 

_“It’s not easy having yourself a good time.  
Greasing up those bets and betters  
Watching out they don’t four-letter” _

The surprise on Jamie’s face morphs to confusion. Is Avon….singing? What the hell? She pulls his chair back up into place, and bounces around the edge of the obsidian tower. Balancing between thin air and the lip of the structure. She’s never this nonchalant, as if there’s no care in the world. She turns back, her wings wide, open and blocking most of Jamie’s view. She gets closer, invading Jamie’s personal space. 

_“Fuck and kiss you both at the same time  
Smells like something I’ve forgotten  
Curled up, died and now it’s rotten” _

Jamie’s cheeks burn at the lyrics, and he tries to escape once more. Tries to use his tail to undo the knots, tries to brute force it. But a glow, a trailing light from Avon’s eyes gives him pause. Avon’s eyes…. They’re purple. Well, more purple than usual. Glowing a bright purple, leaving exposure lines behind from where she walks. The purple has stolen away the fire of her eyes. 

And right behind Avon, a purple crystal, twisting and writhing against the glass bonds around it, sparks and glows the same hue. Jamie notices that one of Avon’s gloves are missing, revealing bright red burn marks up her skin. The same angular symbols that the unstable end crystal holds. “She’s been possessed.” 

_“I’m not a gangster tonight,”_ Avon’s cape flutters aside, revealing a spider eye in one hand. A terrifyingly cold grin breaks across her face. _“Don’t want to be the bad guy.”_

“Avon, s-snap-” He goes quiet as she gets closer, like a predator stalking her prey. Eyes empty, but unwavering from him. “Snap out of it. This is….” Is she going to kill him? Or do something else? “This is really unlike you.” 

But she’s not listening. Or can’t. 

_“I’m just a loner baby  
And now you’ve got in my way.” _

He’s not sure how much he should take this song to heart, though he does know that Avon lived mostly alone until demise. And...well, he is her rival, getting in her way is part of the gig! Jamie tries to shimmy out of the rope, pull himself free, anything to escape and gain a better understanding of what’s happening. Avon’s as much trapped as he is. 

_“I can’t decide  
Whether you should live or die.   
Oh you’ll probably go to heaven,   
Please don’t hang your head and cry.” _

Avon’s arms reach past Jamie, pressing against the back of the chair and slowly tipping it forward. Close enough to feel her hair brushing over his nose, causing him to sneeze. She tips him back, then lets go, only for her foot to catch the bottom rung before he goes tumbling off the side. 

He looks up at her, fear crossing his eyes as his heart leaps to his throat at the sensation of an uncontrolled, sudden fall. Avon giggles, joyful at the expression, and Jamie knows this definitely isn’t Avon. 

_“No wonder why  
My heart feels dead inside.  
It’s cold and hard and petrified,  
Lock the doors and close the blinds   
We’re going for a ride.” _

She kicks her foot forward, and now Jamie’s tumbling towards the hard obsidian in this strange choreography of….whatever this is. He closes his eyes, wincing and preparing for another wound on his head, but is stopped abruptly. When he peeks his eyes open, he’s forced to be face to face with Avon, and the impish, cold smile that haunts her face. 

“Avon it’s my job to the bastard!” Jamie yanks his arms, but only earns a rope burn against his skin. For a second, Jamie sees Avon’s wings close, becoming more guarded, and his ears prick up. A bit more like the Avon he knows. 

_“It’s a bitch convincing people to like you  
If I stop now call me a quitter  
If lies were cats you’d be a litter.”_

He has to keep working, if he hopes to escape this run-in alive, and deal with this creepy version of Avon. He bites down on her wing as it flutters by, muscle, scale, and membrane tearing between his teeth. But it does nothing to break the curse. If anything, the electricity that sparks around the unstable crystal controlling her has only grown stronger. He’s made it angry. “Please, try to fight it!” 

_“Pleasing everyone isn’t like you  
Dancing jugs until i’m crippled   
Slug ten drinks I won’t get pickled.” _

Avon’s little jig, hips swinging and body as unguarded as he’s ever seen, matched with her tune sends shivers down Jamie’s spine. A snap of lightning across the endless starlit sky, and suddenly Jamie isn’t teetering at the edge of the tower. His hat flutters off, joining in it’s own dance as it falls to the ground below. Avon only flies the two higher, dangling him and his chair by the coat of his uniform.

_“I’ve got to hand it to you  
You’ve play by all the same rules.   
It takes the truth to fool me,   
And now you’ve made me angry.” _

“Just now I’ve made you angry?” Jamie laughs nervously, his gallows humor starting to kick in. “I thought it-” She juggles him in the air, weighing nothing with his small form, until he’s looking up at her face again. “I thought it would’ve been when it ripped your wings, or tore up your bed, or ate a bug in front of you.” 

_“I can’t decide  
Whether you should live or die.   
Oh you’ll probably go to heaven,   
Please don’t hang your head and cry.” _

Jamie is now seeing the world upside down, blood rushing to his head and wind rushing past his ears as Avon flies with him suspended, dangerously close to scraping his face against the pillars of darkness. With each hard bank the dragon makes, Jamie yelps and screams. He’s not used to flying, and possessed Avon is getting a kick out of his terror. 

_“No wonder why  
My heart feels dead inside.  
It’s cold and hard and petrified,  
Lock the doors and close the blinds   
We’re going for a ride.” _

Jamie’s breath catches up with him as the two stop, high above the rough endstone that makes up the island. Nowhere near an obsidian tower. High enough to kill. The beating sound of his heart in his ears makes it so he almost doesn’t hear Avon’s next words, as she toys with him like a cat. 

_“Oh I could throw you in the lake,”_ Her hands let go of his shirt, and he begins to plummet. Faster and faster, racing towards the ground. Only to be caught by Avon at the break of impact. 

_“Or feed you poisoned birthday cake.”_ She hefts him up to her face, One hand at the collar of his outfit, the other squeezing his cheeks, index finger booping his nose. If this wasn’t his rival, if she wasn’t talking about killing him while suspended high in the air, it would almost seem like flirting. 

“Avon! You’re stronger than this!” Jamie whimpers, his voice pitched high. He doesn’t want to die again, and he doesn’t want to have to deal with possessed Avon. She must’ve knocked him out and kidnapped him. 

_“I won’t deny I’m gonna miss you when you’re gone.”_

That one line hits him hard, and he wonders about all during demise, if Avon held the same belief, or maybe this is just the lyrics of whatever song she’s humming along to. “Then don’t kill me, you big scalie!” 

_“Oh I could bury you alive, but you might crawl out with a knife.”_ He shouldn’t have insulted her, because the crystal takes full control once more, and the grin grows manic. She flies back to the tower, tossing him against the black rock, leaving him trapped like a turtle, pinned down by the chair that one point held him up. _“And kill me when I’m sleeping, that’s why…”_

Avon hefts him back up, finally- blessedly- on all four feet of the chair. Jamie takes his first real breath since his feet left the ground, and he realizes he’s trapped. No matter how much he tries to wriggle his little ferret body free, he can’t escape. This is his death. He hands his head, trying not to think about dying, and unable to help free Avon from her curse. A tears prick at the corner of his eyes. Should he plead? Fight? Will anything stop her from murdering him?

_“I can’t decide  
Whether you should live or die.   
Oh, you’d probably go to heaven,  
Please don’t hang your head and cry.” _

At those words, repeated again, Avon’s touch makes him open his eyes, and Avon’s ducked low. The smile is a little less wild, brows creased in almost an apologetic, pitying way. As if she pities killing him. But she opens her wings, encasing Jamie in darkness. Until all that’s left is the glow of purple eyes, and the sound of a knife. 

_“My heart feels dead inside  
It’s cold, and hard and petrified.  
Lock the doors and close the blinds,  
We’re going for a ride.” _


	52. A Monster Among the Mafia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Avon, still writing demise well into November (almost december)? its more likely than you think. Based on an actual conversation had by Spelle and me- just a bit more storyfied.

The last person Spelle expected to see walk through the doors into his dark office was Avon. His grey skin crawled and fingers twitched, hungry to snuff out the life still residing within the dragonheart before him. The guards to Spelle's office have similar reactions to the warmblood. She’s in the viper’s den, and all the snakes are coiled to attack.

All Spelle has to do is give the word. 

But seeing Avon here was a surprise. She’s certainly made a name for herself in this game of death, but she’s done little with the greater plot of team battles and events that have occurred. To find her here, among the Monster Mafia, was more than a surprise. Spelle never would have imagined the dragon winged guardian to make her presence known in such a way. 

“To what do I owe the honor, warmblood?” Spelle muses, leaning back in his chair and tipping his hat back to see Avon. He rests his feet on his desk, watching her carefully. She’s unarmed, but that doesn’t mean she still can’t kill. But so can Spelle. He can’t believe, despite only having one teammate, she still has three lives. 

“I want you to kill Jamie.” Spelle raises an eyebrow, glowing blue eyes glimmering. Avon’s expression remains neutral, not betraying any thoughts or emotions. 

“Straight to the point, eh?” Spelle stands, walking around his desk, circling Avons like a vulture. Deciding how he wants to spin his web. “He’s your rival, why can’t you do so yourself?” 

“He knows my tactics, and i need more than just me and Exnoh to take him out.” Spelle stops in front of her, turning so that they’re face to face.

Suddenly, and without warning, Spelle draws a pistol from his jacket, pressing the barrel flat on the juncture of Avon’s throat and head. The gun is already cocked, his finger itching to squeeze the trigger. “Though, it might help you to know that Jamie is one of my informants.” 

Avon’s tipped her head back, but she doesn’t retreat from the threat pressed at her throat. Her breath has picked up, though- to Spelle’s chagrin- the flash of fear across his victim’s face he so relishes doesn’t appear across Avon’s. How boring. Rather she continues to remain neutral, staring down the bridge of her nose to Spelle. The office is silent, both parties only considering the weapon aimed at the other. Deciding who will make the first move. “Jamie requested I do this. I plot his own demise.” 

Spelle watches Avon, trying to determine if she’s telling the truth. But the mob boss can see no falsehoods written across Avon, or tinged in her voice. And, to be honest, that sounds like something Jamie would do. He can’t quite figure out the rivalry between the two- perhaps there’s something more going on. 

But a chance to demise another warmblood? Well, that’s an offer he simply can’t refuse. Spelle removes the gun from Avon’s throat, sauntering back to his desk and sitting down. Avon’s wings nestled back to their resting position at her back, and Spelle intertwines his fingers and rests his head on them. “Sounds like a deal, dragonheart.” Spelle pauses, looking over the warmblood before him. “You know, you’d fit well in my mafia. Seeing as you’re already a mons-” 

This time, it’s Spelle’s turn to be a breath from death. In a flash, darkness engulfing him, Avon has crossed the room and his desk. Knocking him out of his chair, and pinning him to the wall with an arm barred across his throat. Finally, a reaction from his guest. The anger, ferocity in Avon’s eyes, daring him to continue to say the word resting on his tongue. The deep growl, barred teeth threatening to rip him apart.

The sound of the struggle alerted the guards, who come bursting through the door with guns raised. Spelle sees the fellow mafia members take aim at Avon’s back, but he raises a hand. Forcing them to stop. “Lower your weapons. I have this handled, boys.” He looks back at Avon. “No need for violence, it was merely a suggestion.” 

Avon retreats, though her body still tense. Ready to kill if he dares speak that word about her. Spelle smirks, returning to his chair. Just as calm and collected as before. “Your dear rival Jamie will be dead by the next full moon. Now- you are dismissed. I have other important work to deal with. And a ferret to skin.”


	53. Snow Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For my fellow Ender Ender, the other idiot in our team rocket duo, have a happy holidays! I truly love the art you made, so I had to give something back in return! 
> 
> Happy Holidays!

“You’ve never played in the snow before?” Exnoh questions, watching as Avon holds a hand out, the rare glimmer in her ally’s eyes 

Avon shrugs. “Once with friends, but it wasn’t for long. Just while we passed through a tundra, throwing snowballs. And after that…” 

Exnoh notices the way Avon shivers, and he doesn’t press any further. But its such a beautiful sight, the silent fall of the snow, flakes dancing in the wind like a strange but natural choreography only they know. He tips his head back, purple locks falling away and daring to pull his mask to his chin. A snowflake falls in between his eyes, slowly melting against the pale lilac skin before streaking down, across the bridge of his nose, into the valley of his eye, then slicking to his jaw before joining its brethren at his feet. 

She sticks out her tongue, the cold bite of snowflakes as they’re caught. She can’t last long without her mask, not in this heavy air, so she relishes in every second she can, until, like rising to the surface of the ocean, she has to secure her mask back over her nose and mouth. But that doesn’t stop Exnoh from her excitement as the snowstorm continues. “Let’s go sledding.” 

“What, sled-” Avon doesn’t get to finish her words as Exnoh grabs her fellow Ender Ender by the arm and drags her to the nearest hill. Together, the two use sticks, wood, and even bark to build a sled, placing it at the very edge of the slope. Avon motions for Exnoh to get on first, who squishes his legs onto the small sled. 

Avon gives a push, chasing after the sled as it picks up speed. When her feet can’t keep up, she gives three strong beats of her wings, and clings onto Exnoh’s shoulders. The two plummet down the massive hill, cold wind biting into their skin, playing with Exnoh’s hair and Avon’s cape. Speeding, Exnoh’s laughter is mixed with a surprised gasp from Avon. 

At the bottom of the hill, however, a snow bank gave them an abrupt end to their ride. The snowdrift stops the sled, breaking it to pieces like a boat against cactus, but the Ender Enders continue forward. Chucked into the snow, rolling for a few more meters. Exnoh immediately kneels, ignoring the snow in his hair and searching for Avon. 

Surely she’s going to be pissed, thrown into the snow and covered in the cold. But when Exnoh finds the blonde hair, white just a few shades lighter than the locks, the black pauldron and cloak are bouncing up and down. Avon’s giggle breaks through the quiet, muffled snow, and Exnoh finally relaxes, enjoying the powder clinging to his clothes. He flops back, spreading his arms and legs, leaving the imprint of an angel on the ground. Staring up at the grey clouds and the drifting flakes. 

Its not often the Ender Enders get a moment of respite, the peace in this snowfall. But in these rare moments, the duo takes what they can. No death, no fighting. Just enjoying the winter wonderland, laughing and playing in the freedom of the snowy biome around them.


End file.
